As the World Turns
by Coffee-Flavored Fate
Summary: Can lust turn to love, or is it purely infatuation? Is it the dashing Amando that Romano desires, or his brother, the suave Valentíne? Or Alfred Jones, the charming actor who plays them both? Or, heaven forbid, America; the man behind them all.
1. A New Fixation

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_A prize/thank-you fic for UnknownAuthorPerson, based on a surprisingly detailed and challenging prompt, which has spiralled out of control into a chaptered fic, despite my efforts. I really shouldn't be taking on another chaptered fic right now, especially considering the circumstances, but I have no regrets. No regrets! If nothing else, plotting and writing the inane absurdity that is/will be the soap opera is a kick that leaves me simultaneously facepalming in disbelief and embarrassment, and laughing maniacally inside my head._

_It also is serving as a nice diversion while I wait for the doctors to figure out how to treat the illness which is currently deteriorating my mental faculties. Unfortunately that means that I really can't speak for the quality of the story, as I am writing under impaired cognitive function (although I am doing my best). Thankfully UnknownAuthorPerson is both aware of and understanding of this, and gracefully allowed me to continue despite my current condition. Which is nice, because I have the need to write, but I am a little afraid to write for any of my other stories until I know my limits and the extent of my impairment, and writing this story is helping me test them and work that out. _

_Once treatment is started my mind should clear, but it may be some time until then. So in the meantime, please be patient with me and forgive my lapses (feel free to point errors out to me, though, so that I can fix them.)_

_That being said, enjoy the show! (And mind the rating. It's there for a reason.)_

* * *

><p>"Hurry up, guys! It's going to be starting soon!" Spain called excitedly from his place on the couch, squeezed in-between Belgium and France. Prussia, sprawled across the armrest next to France, leaned over to snag a handful of popcorn from the bowl on Spain's lap.<p>

"Just for the record, I'm just here for the snacks." He said, ignoring France's irritated huff when his shouldblades blocked the view.

"Down or up, idiot. Choose one." France nudged the Germanic nation, frowning. "I for one don't want to miss _anything_."

"Yeah, yeah." Prussia acknowledged, jamming as much popcorn as he could fit into his mouth and quickly snagging another handful before resuming his previous position. "I'ge'up." He settled back against the couch, shifting restlessly on the armrest, and made a face. "On second thought, down was more comfortable." He decided, flopping sideways to sprawl across France and Spain's laps, jostling the popcorn bowl.

"Idiot!" France scolded again, rescuing the bowl from hitting the floor and settling it safely on the side table. "You're going to make a mess. Are you at least comfortable now?"

"Yeah, 'm good." Prussia answered lazily, rolling onto his back and pillowing his head on Spain's stomach, blinking at the screen. "Much comfier." Spain absently ruffled his hair, and France returned his attention to the screen, draping his arm comfortably across Prussia's hip. "When's this thing s'posed to start, anyway?"

"Any minute now." Spain craned his head back over the back of the couch. "Netherlands, Romano, Veneziano! You're going to miss it!"

"Like I give a crap." Netherlands answered coolly from where he leaned nonchalantly against the wall in order to lurk silently in the background as was his wont. "I don't care either way."

"Brother's been looking forward to this all week." Belgium murmured confidentially to the others, her catlike grin fond and amused. "He was very impatient to get here. He practically dragged me all the way!"

"It's a very good show!" Spain agreed, smiling happily at the success of his nation's entertainment. "Everyone loves it!"

"Did you remember to set it to record so we can watch it together with Luxembourg later?" Belgium reminded him, tucking her skirt securely around her legs (she was _probably_ safe on this side of Spain, especially with her brother nearby; but she couldn't be too careful in the present company).

"Oh, right!" Spain leaned forward to grab the controller off the coffeetable and hit the record button, briefly smothering Prussia, who squirmed a bit but didn't complain. "Thanks for reminding me! I wouldn't want him to miss the first episode of this season!"

"It's too bad he couldn't be here." Belgium agreed, nodding in sympathy for their missing friend. "It would have been nice if we could all be together."

"His boss is such a slave driver." Spain's brows furrowed in a concerned frown, and he pouted a little on his friend's behalf. "He could've let Lux off for this. It's just one afternoon, after all."

"We can watch it again together later." Belgium reassured him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We'll bring it over to watch at his place after he's done with work! We'll all want to watch it again anyway."

"That's a good idea!" Spain agreed, cheering instantly.

"I thought you said this was going to start _soon_." Prussia complained, squirming back against Spain a bit for attention. "I'm getting _bored, _Spain. This is _booorrrring._"

"It'll start very soon!" Spain assured him, stroking his friend's upper arm in a calming fashion. "You're going to love it, Prussia, wait and see!"

"I'd better." Prussia said, pouting a little for show. "I wouldn't watch something sissy like this if you guys hadn't been _talking_ _it up_ so much."

"Now, now. Stop fussing and have a beer, _mon ami_." France chided, passing him a bottle, knowing his friend just needed some attention. "You'll like it, you'll see." Satisfied now that he'd been noticed, Prussia settled down to sip his beer and watch the screen, waiting for the much-hyped show to start.

"It is a very good show." Belgium agreed, and turned around in her seat to peer over the back of the couch. "But where are the boys? They're going to miss the beginning if they don't hurry!"

* * *

><p>"Venez<em>iano,<em> we're going to miss the beginning if you don't _hurry up_." Romano growled as he stood in the kitchen, arms full of snacks and beverages for the show ahead. "It's about to start, dammit!"

"Ve~, but, I want to make sure we have enough snacks!" Veneziano said, digging through the fridge, his own arms loaded like his brothers. "It would be bad if we ran out halfway through the show!"

Romano had to concede that. Snacks were a vital part of the experience, too. "Fine, but hurry up!"

"I'm almost done." Veneziano assured him. "I'm so excited for the new season, aren't you? I wonder what's going to happen!" He chattered excitedly, closing the refrigerator door and trotting over to the pantry to pull out a few bottles of wine. "I hope Catalina isn't too brokenhearted over her fiance's death last season!"

Romano frowned, worried himself over Catalina's condition. The beautiful, spirited daughter of the wealthy and powerful Gaspar de Castañón in the period drama _Forever is Not Long Enough_ had been through so much already, between the death of her beloved aunt, finding her long-lost sister Isabel and losing her after only _six episodes_ to a freak bull-trampling accident _just_ before Isabel was able to reveal to her the terrible secret that their family was hiding, falling in love with the handsome Francisco and her heartbreak over his subsequent betrayal with her best friend, and learning to trust and love again at last with the dashing Pedro de Navarro, despite the disapproval of her father and the interference of the wicked Camilla, who had designs on Pedro despite being courted by Gaspar. And just when everything seemed to have worked out and been going well for her, what with Camilla's schemes being revealed, and her father being saved from public disgrace and ex-communication by Pedro's timely intervention, resulting in Gaspar _finally_ approving their marriage; the last season had ended with Pedro's death, stabbed in front of her during the wedding by his _best friend—_ who turned out to be Camilla's bastard son, seeking revenge for his mother's disgrace.

It was _terrible_. Romano (and millions of other fans), had been _heartbroken_ for poor Catalina, who had been through such terrible tragedies, but stayed beautiful and strong and spirited throughout it all. He was hoping this season things would be different. He'd been counting off the days to the season premiere _all summer_.

And _Veneziano_ was going to make him _miss _it!

"Do you think I have time to make some pasta?" Veneziano wondered, frowning at the pantry.

"_Veneziano,_ if you make us miss the premiere, I'm going to put you on a marmite diet for _two whole days_." Romano growled threateningly. His brother gasped in horror, eyes widening at the thought of such a terrible fate.

"Ve, ve, ve, I'm done, don't make me eat marmite, _please!"_ He cried, fleeing the kitchen. Romano followed him with a victorious huff, satisfied that they weren't about to miss the show.

They made it back to the couch just as the last commercial ended, and the announcer signalled the start of the show.

"So this soap opera-" Prussia started to ask, only to be hissed into silence by the other six (and swatted by France).

"And it's a 'daytime drama.'" Spain corrected. "Not—"

"Shut _up_, bastards! The show's starting! If you make me miss anything..." Romano threatened, eyes fixed intently on the screen. His weren't the only ones, though— everyone but Prussia was watching with eager intensity, their excitement palpable enough to even keep Prussia's mouth shut and his eyes on the screen to see what all the fuss was about.

"_Cuando el amor no es locura, no es amor." _A mellifluous Spanish baritone announced fluidly as the music was beginning to swell. Prussia frowned.

"Subtitles, Spain?"

Wordlessly, Spain hit a button on the remote, and the subtitles scrolled across the bottom of the screen along with the voice. "When love is not madness, it is not love. And when it is love, then..." the voice paused dramatically, before declaring the title as it spelled itself across the screen in brilliant red and gold, "_Forever is Not Long Enough_."

"You've _got_ to be kidding me." Prussia snorted, rolling his eyes, earning himself a light backhand from Belgium.

"_Shhhh." _

Prussia pouted, but ceased interrupting. Until Catalina appeared on the screen a moment later, that is.

"Fuck, is that the chick you've been talking about? She's hot!" He exclaimed approvingly. "This might be worth watching after all!"

"She's _beautiful."_ Veneziano sighed dreamily. "And _so_ brave, ve~."

"She's a _goddess_." Romano corrected, gesturing definitively.

"Our little Roma has a crush on Catalina." Belgium murmured lowly to the others, eyes sparkling. "It's so cute!"

"It is cute!" Spain agreed, clasping his hands under his chin at the cuteness of it, eyes likewise sparkling. "My little boy's growing up!"

"I can't say I blame him, she's hot as fuck." Prussia admired, watching the heroine's ample bosom heave pneumatically during a particularly dramatic clip wherin she was facing down some pirates.

"Shut _up_, bastards!"

Finally the lengthy opening sequence ended, and a series of flashbacks and dramatic narration brought the viewer up to speed on what had happened last season.

"Holy _crap_." Prussia exclaimed as the eventful life of the tragic heroine unfolded. "All that happened _last season?"_

"That's just the highlights." Veneziano explained without looking away from the screen. "A lot more happened, but it'd take too long to tell. So, they only show the clips that are relevant to the current episode at the beginning of the show, ve~."

_"Damn."_ Prussia fell silent for real this time, interest finally piqued, just as the flashback sequence finished with the last scene of the previous season: Catalina, holding her groom in her lap as he died, on the floor of the cathedral, before the candlelit altar where they had just exchanged vows.

"Don't leave me," Catalina pleaded, stroking the face of her fatally wounded groom, her pure white wedding dress stained with the blood of the man sprawled across her lap, "you can't leave me, Pedro. We're finally married. You're my _husband_, Pedro. You're...you're my everything."

"Ca, Catalina." Pedro rasped, blood trickling from his mouth, nobly handsome even in anguish, and raised a trembling hand to caress her cheek. "I'm...sorry...I can't...keep my promise. I...I love you, my Catalina. I'll...always love you."

"Pedro." Catalina sobbed, turning her face into his palm, kissing it. "Pedro, Pedro, my Pedro. I'll never love again."

"You _must_, Catalina." Pedro insisted, urgently, and coughed on the crimson life-fluid bubbling in his lungs from his multiple stab wounds He swallowed, and tangled his fingers in her hair, eyes burning with the intensity of his conviction as he spoke. "There's...so much love in you, Catalina. Don't...don't hide it away. You _must_ love again."

"I can't." Catalina sobbed, heartbroken. "Without you, Pedro, my heart will die, I know it."

"No, my love, no." Despite his terrible pain, Pedro smiled lovingly, lifting her chin to look in her eyes. "You will find love again, Catalina. I know it. Do it..." He paused to cough up more blood, continuing labourously, "do it for me."

"Pedro..." Catalina closed her eyes, tears coursing her cheeks, taking his hand in hers and kissing it tenderly.

"Catalina." Pedro sighed, closing his eyes with a peaceful smile, breathing his last breath. "My... love..."

Catalina kissed his brow, brushing the hair from his face as she wept. Then she looked up at the man who had caused the death of her fiance, the traitorous son of Camilla, who was held firmly by two of the town's guardsmen. She rose from the floor, eyes flashing, drawing herself up with the grace and authority of a queen. "Get him out of here." She commanded, gesturing furiously. "Before I kill him with my own two hands."

"My mother has been avenged!" The traitor cried, struggling as the guards dragged him from the church. "The bastard died like the dog he was!" His maniacal laughter echoed through the church, fading into the distance as he was led away.

"Catalina." Gaspar de Castañón stepped forward to gather his daughter in his arms, and she clung to him, weeping. "What are you all standing around staring for!" He shouted at the assembled congregation."Clean up this mess!" Slowly, the people began to pick up the pieces, and bear the corpse of the brave Pedro de Navarro away as the scene faded.

(Quiet sniffling was the only sound in room, every moistened eye was riveted on the screen. France wordlessly slipped Prussia his extra handkerchief.)

Seagulls cried out as they wheeled through the air, their wings a brilliant white against the stunning cerulean skies. Catalina, though, was unmindful of them as she leaned against the balcony railing, her shining raven tresses tousled artfully by the wind as she gazed wistfully into the distance, her dark eyes sad. Gaspar stood in the doorway, his own expression one of fatherly concern as he took her in. "You think of him still, Catalina?" He asked sadly as he drew near, reaching out to cup her chin, lifting her gaze so he could look in her eyes. "Even after all this time?"

"I think of him always." Catalina smiled mournfully, tears shimmering in her beautiful eyes. "Every moment of every day, I think of him." She turned her head and closed her eyes, a single tear slowly coursing her silken cheek. "The pain is as fresh as the moment of his death. Pedro, my Pedro..."

"Ah, my daughter." Her father folded her in his arms, tucking her head under his chin and rocking her gently. "I would see you smile again, Catalina. I would see you find love, and happiness. I want you to _live_, my daughter."

"I do not think I can ever love again." Catalina said sadly. "My heart is dead, papa. When Pedro died, it died along with him, and I do not think it can be made to live again."

"My daughter, my darling girl." Gaspar crooned, stroking her hair. "Do not say such things. Your mother, and your sister, and Pedro; they would be sad to hear such things. They would want you to be happy. They would want you to live, and to love, and to be loved. To be _happy_, Catalina. For them. For me."

Catalina nodded, pulling back to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "You're right, they would want me to be happy." She looked up at him, tears still sparkling like diamonds in her eyes, and gave him a watery smile. "I will try, papa. For their sake. For you."

"That's my girl." Gaspar kissed her forehead, and smiled warmly, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "Now, come. I have something that I think might cheer you up. Your papa has got a present for you!"

"Oh?" Catalina asked, curiousity peaked as her father escorted her through the house and into the courtyard. "What is it, papa?"

"You will see in a moment, my darling." Her father assured her, eyes sparkling. "Ah, there he is." He stopped in the archway, gesturing grandly at something in the courtyard beyond. "You see? What do you think?"

Catalina turned, searching curiously for her father's surprise, and gasped, eyes widening in delight when she caught sight of the magnificent black stallion standing in the courtyard, coat shining in the sun, thick mane rippling in the breeze. "Oh, papa!" She ran across the courtyard to throw her arms around the horse's neck, and it whickered lightly and nuzzled her shoulder at the attention. Her father laughed, delighted with her response to his gift.

"You like him, then, Catalina?"

"Oh, papa, he's magnificent!" Catalina effused, smiling brilliantly as she stroked the animal's nose. "He's beautiful! Wherever did you find him?"

"I saw him on my visit to Madrid. The moment I set eyes on him, I knew he was _perfect_ for you. The spitting image of your mother's Arturo."

Catalina nodded, eyes growing misty at the memory of her mother's favourite horse. "He saved her life on many occasions." She murmured softly, trailing her fingers over the stallion's cheek.

Her father nodded, blinking back tears of his own. "He was a good horse. Your mother loved him dearly. And this one," he added more strongly, stepping forward to lay his hand on the stallion's forehead, "this one, who is so like him, will bring you luck." He caressed his daughter's cheek with his other hand, smiling fondly. "Do you like him, Catalina?"

Catalina smiled at him, eyes shining, and pressed a kiss to the horse's cheek. "He's _wonderful_." She released the horse to throw her arms around her father's neck instead, pressing a kiss to his cheek as well. "Thank you, papa. Thank you. Can I ride him now? Before dinner?"

"You cannot wait, eh?" Her father laughed, shaking his head. "Alright, alright; but mind that you're back in time for dinner." He tapped her nose. "I'm glad you like him, Catalina. Arturo was a wonderful horse." He winked, eyes sparkling mischeviously. "Your mother was riding him when we met. Perhaps this horse, too, will carry you to love as well, no?"

"Oh, father." Catalina closed her eyes against the rising tears, clinging to her father. "I will try to be happy, but I cannot promise to love." She sighed deeply, confessing in a whisper, "I fear that part of me is lost forever."

"Never say never, my daughter." Gaspar brushed her raven tresses out of her eyes, smiling warmly. "You never know what the future may bring, hm?"

Catalina smiled a little sadly, obviously mourning her lost love but trying to be brave for her father's sake, and kissed his cheek again. "I'll be back in time for dinner, papa." She assured him, pulling back and mounting the horse.

"See that you are!" He called after her, waving as she rode from the courtyard. "Remember, the Baron Vincente will be there, and Juan de la Barca! Do not be late!"

Catalina rode along the ivory coastline, the vibrant red of her dress and gleaming ebony of her hair and cantering mount a breathtaking image against a backdrop of azure sky and ocean; a masterpiece of fresh womanhood, completed to perfection in the soft flush of her cheeks, her carmine lips, and the brilliance of her eyes.

Suddenly and for no apparent reason the horse shied, rearing, and Catalina cried out in fear. The audience gasped in horror as the heroine clung desperately to the animal, shrieking as it went mad, rearing and bucking, throwing its head back and screaming. Just when it looked as though she would be thrown and trampled, a hand reached up and grabbed the horse's bridle, pulling it down to earth once more, to where a young man stood waiting, seeming to have appeared out of nowhere. His back was turned, his face hidden under the brim of the dark leather cowboy hat he wore as he spoke to the animal, soothing it with gentle touches and meaningless sounds, stroking it's ears and nose and neck until it stood calm under his hands. Once the stallion was stilled, he looked its passenger, reaching out a hand to help her down.

"Are you alright?" The stranger asked concernedly, apparently taking in her pale and shaken appearance. She nodded wordlessly as she took his hand, allowing him to help her dismount. Once her feet touched the ground, though, her legs seemed to fail her, and she would have collapsed if he hadn't caught her. "Woah, there." He said as he supported her, and she ended up leaning heavily against his broad chest, visibly trembling. "Easy, now." He soothed, rubbing her back comfortingly. "You're alright. You're safe now. I've got ya." She shivered, exhaling, and clung to him as he continued to soothe her gently, lowly murmuring comforting words in his smooth, warm voice. All through this the camera was focused on Catalina; the stranger's face was never shown.

After a few moments Catalina pulled herself together, and looked up into the face of her rescuer, which was still obscured from the viewers. Her breath caught, her eyes widening, and her cheeks coloured. For a moment she only stared, mouth open, until the stranger asked kindly, "You feeling better, now?"

"W-what?" She blinked rapidly, a little flustered, and realised what she was doing, clinging to a strange man on the beach. She pushed against his chest, wrenching herself from his arms, looking angry with herself for her weakness. "Thank you." She said in clipped, haughty tones as she turned away; throwing her shoulders back haughtily, spine straight, brushing her dark hair back out of her face. "I appreciate your assistance, but I had it under control."

The stranger laughed, and she spun on him, eyes flashing at being, as she saw it, mocked. "What are you laughing at?" She demanded, cheeks flushing angrily. "I had it under control, I did!"

Finally, the audience was allowed to see the newcomer; a tall young man with a boyish face and a bright, easy smile, with eyes so blue they rivalled the sky overhead. The cowboy hat covered most of his hair, but a few golden strands tucked behind his ear showed him to be blond. He was remarkably attractive, and it was easy to see why Catalina had become so flustered when she saw him.

"Easy, easy." He chuckled, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm just relieved you're alright. You seemed a little shaken up, there. I'm glad you're okay." He added, tilting his head with an easy smile, and she blushed, dropping her eyes.

"I was perfectly fine." She asserted, looking away from his blue eyes and bright smile, and fiddling with the ends of her hair. "I was just...a little startled, that's all."

"Understandable." The man agreed, turning back to the horse and taking hold of its bridle. "So what had this little fella so worked up?"

"I, I don't know." Catalina admitted. "He's, he's new. I don't think he's been properly trained, yet." She brushed her hair back over her shoulder, frowning. "Although I don't know if we'll be keeping him, after that little episode."

"Is that so?" He asked curiously, stroking the animal's nose. "That'd be a shame. He seems like a mighty fine fella. We should get his side of the story first, don't you think?"

"And how do you propose we do that, exactly?" She asked, gesturing to the horse. "I certainly didn't see any reason for his behaviour."

"Well," the young man shrugged amiably, "I guess we'd better ask him, then."

"'Ask him?'" Catalina scoffed, tossing her head. "Don't be ridiculous. Horses can't talk." The young man grinned at her.

"You sure about that?"

"Of course!"

"Have you ever tried?"

"Of course I haven't! That would be absurd."

"You never know if you don't try," He winked, and she blushed again, crossing her arms with a huff. Chuckling, he turned back to the horse, and patted its cheek as he asked gently, "So how 'bout it, fella? What got you all riled up?" The horse shook its head, whickering, and the young man nodded. "Mhm. Mhm. Okay." The stallion's ears flickered, and it nudged his shoulder. Catalina watched, interested despite herself as the 'conversation' continued between man and beast. "Aha?" The young man's eyes flickered briefly in her direction, and he nodded in apparent understanding. "I see what you mean." He patted it's nose, smiling sympathetically. "I hear ya, boy. Perfectly understandable."

"W...what did he say?" Catalina asked, glancing between the horse and man. The man glanced at her, and back at the horse, rubbing its nose comfortingly.

"Well," he said, brows furrowing, "it's a little embarrassing. I'm not sure he wants me to tell you."

Catalina pursed her lips, frowning, hands on her hips. "I think I deserve to know."

The young man nodded, and addressed the stallion. "How 'bout it, buddy? You mind if I tell her?" The horse lowered its head, flicking its ears. "I know, I know. But part of bein' a man is fessin' up to your mistakes." He nodded, once, and turned to Catalina. "Well, y'see, it's like this: it was just that you're so light and easy to carry that after a while he forgot there was anyone riding him at all. He thought he was all alone out here, enjoying a peaceful stroll on the beach, y'know? And so when he happened to glance back and catch sight of you sitting there, all bright and beautiful like you are, he was dead sure for a moment that the sun had come down from the sky and was sittin' on his back, and, well, he panicked." The horse snorted, and pawed the sand. "I'm gettin' to that. Y'see, he says your beauty burned so bright he was sure it'd burn him up, too." The young man's eyes held hers as he added earnestly, "So, you see why he might have gotten a little flustered. It's not everyday you find out you're carrying the sun."

Catalina's lips twitched. "No, I guess it's not."

The stranger grinned, blue eyes hopeful. "So, you'll keep him?"

"I suppose we will." Catalina agreed, smiling despite herself. "As long as it doesn't happen again."

"Y'hear that, fella? All's forgiven." The young man patted the horse's neck. "Isn't that great?" The horse shook its head again, and whickered, nibbling at his shirt. "What's that? Y'sure? Hm...I don't know if she'll agree to that, but I'll ask." Catalina arched an amused eyebrow as the young man turned back to her, grinning boyishly. "Our friend here says he'd feel better if I went along to escort you back. Just to make sure you make it safely."

"Oh he does, does he?" Catalina laughed. "Alright, then. If it makes 'him' feel better." She allowed him to help her get back on the horse, gasping a little in surprise when he lifted her easily into the saddle, as if she weighed nothing at all. Once she was comfortably mounted he took the animal's bridle, leading it back the way they'd come.

As a commercial for laundry detergent started, the audience stirred, temporarily released from the spell of the show. "So..." Prussia started. "Daytime drama, huh?"

"Yep." Spain affirmed, nodding. "It's a perfectly legitimate form of entertainment."

"Cool." Prussia decided. "So, is _everyone_ on this show fuckin' sexy as hell? Who's the hot blond guy who showed up and rescued that Catalina chick?"

"I don't know." Spain admitted. "He's a new character."

"He is _very_ handsome though, isn't he?" Belgium grinned delightedly, enjoying the prospect of new eye-candy. "Oh! What're the chances he'll have his shirt off by the end of the episode?"

"Hm, fairly good." France rubbed his chin in a show of contemplation. "A build like that? They'll want to capitalize on it as soon as possible." Then he frowned, brows furrowing thoughtfully. "Y'know, there was something very... _familiar_... about him..."

"You've probably fucked him before." Prussia said dismissively, grabbing for the popcorn. "Or the other way 'round."

"He looks like a dominant lover, to me. But no, I'm fairly sure I would remember if I had." France mused, still frowning.

"It's true he's very handsome, but he looks so young!" Veneziano added, frowning doubtfully. "I think he'd barely even be legal yet, so if you'd had sex with him before, he would have been underage. I don't think big brother France would do that." The other nations exchanged glances.

"Sure, North." Prussia said kindly, patting his head. "Whatever you say."

"Why don't you have some cookies, Veneziano." Belgium offered, smiling in a motherly fashion as she offered him a plate of sugary treats.

"Ve~, thank you!"

"Well, whoever he is, he's good with horses." Spain said approvingly, changing the subject. "So I'm sure he's a very nice young man. What do you think, Romano?" He asked, turning to the personification of South Italy.

_"Igottagobastards."_ Romano said in a rush, jumping up from his seat and hurrying from the room. Belgium, Spain and Veneziano looked after him in concern.

"Ve~, Romano?"

"What's eating li'l South?" Prussia wondered, snagging another beer.

"He's probably just upset that some newcomer is stealing his darling Catalina." France chuckled, waving off their concern. "Ah, the tender hearts of children in love."

"Ohh." Belgium covered her mouth with a hand, brows furrowed in sympathy. "Poor Romano!"

"Poor little Roma." Spain agreed worriedly, peering back over the couch to the door through which his former colony had fled. "Do you think we should go talk to him?"

"No, no, let him be." France said, patting his friend's shoulder. "There's nothing that you could say or do that would ease his broken heart. He just needs a little time to himself."

"If you say so." Spain nodded, settling back down in his seat. "I'd hate for him to miss the show, though."

"Well, are recording it." Belgium reminded him gently. "He can always watch it with us later. And I'll make Romano some of my special chocolate mousse, to cheer him up!"

"That's a wonderful idea!"

"Shhhh, the show's starting again!" Prussia interjected excitedly, squeezing himself in-between France and Spain to watch as the commercial break ended.

* * *

><p>Romano opened his eyes to stare at the mess he'd made, hot and sticky and deeply confused.<p>

He hadn't heard a word of the conversation downstairs. In fact, ever since that..._man,_ had appeared on the screen, he'd been oblivious to anything else. It was his voice that did it. Spanish was obviously not his first language, although he was fluent; but the way he _spoke_ it...smooth, and sweet, with just the hint of an accent he couldn't quite place...something about it caused Romano's ears to burn and his spine tingle and made him weak in the knees. And the more he spoke the worse it got, 'til Romano's body was thrumming and pulsing and he ached with need, and he was deeply, deeply thankful for the throw pillow on his lap which hid his erection.

Ever since the start of the series, Romano had harboured a crush on Catalina (and he'd had a few fantasies, he could admit). She was beautiful, spirited, alluring, sexy. But as soon as the stranger had opened his mouth, Romano hadn't been able to tear his eyes away. He'd found himself watching those lips as they formed the words that made his blood run electric and turned his knees to water, or curved up into an easy smile that made his skin flush hot and his fingertips tingle. He'd found himself thinking of all the _other_ things that mouth could do, too. Which led to thoughts of those strong hands on his hips, lifting him as easily as they had Catalina, of his legs wrapped around that waist, those slim hips between his thighs, moving inside him; that _voice_ in his ear, murmuring in that deliciously accented Spanish, that easy smile above him, those vivid blue eyes gazing intently down at him as they fucked.

And then the commercial break came, and Romano's head had cleared just enough for him to realise what he'd been thinking, and become confused. He liked women, not men. He liked being on top, not the bottom— men were assholes, and he didn't want one up his. He liked romance, and love, and courtship and _relationships_, dammit. He had no interest in raw animal sex or fucking purely out of lust. The very thought of it turned him off. He liked _Catalina_, not this...this _stranger_. But his body was throbbing and his head was spinning and it occurred to Romano that if that man were to somehow step off of the screen and into the room at that moment and speak to him in that _voice_, with that _accent,_ he would let the bastard fuck him right then and there, on the couch in front of everyone, and not give a _damn_. His cock twitched, hard, at the thought, and Romano babbled some excuse and fled the room, knowing he had to get out of there and find some privacy, _fast_.

Which was why he was here, sitting in this chair in an upstairs room where Spain kept his spare television, far away from everyone, the door safely locked and the blinds pulled, with his legs sprawled and his hand down his (now very messy, he was going to have to wash these) pants, hot and sticky and staring at the screen with a strange mixture of anticipation and excitement and confusion, waiting for and dreading the moment the show would begin.

At least, he thought as the commericals ended, he would probably never meet this guy. That should save him some humiliation.

* * *

><p>"<em>Putain de merde," <em>France gasped, eyes widening in realization when the young man removed his hat as he introduced himself to Catalina's father, revealing a cowlick that France knew all too well. _"I know who that is!"_

* * *

><p><em>AN:<em> _It's a little quick and dirty, but there you go._

_So, yes. Spanish soaps. I had to do some research on soap operas for this, and it turns out that Spain (and the rest of the world) mostly watches American soaps. Spain (and the rest of the world) does make their own, though, too, which are just as absurd and deliciously fantasmagorical as any soap should be. It makes me want to act in one. Or write for one. _

_Prussia, when he refers to the Italy brothers in the strips and CDs usually refers to Veneziano as 'Italy-chan' and Romano as 'Italy-niisan', basically, 'little Italy' and 'big brother Italy' (not meaning his own big brother— that is, not **Prussia's**_ **'**_big brother Italy', but referring to the fact that Romano is **Veneziano's** big brother.) That's awkward to convey in English, so I changed it to 'North' and 'South', to maintain the affectionate address without being too confusing._

_I should also point out that although Prussia adores the Italy brothers, they don't necessarily reciprocate. North Italy likes him okay (but is understandably wary of him at times), but Romano dislikes him intently, for very, very good reasons. _


	2. For Catalina

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Even in soap opera form.**

_Yeah, you get this raw, 'cause that's how I roll, baby. _

* * *

><p>Romano gulped mouthfuls of water from the cascading stream above in an effort to quench the thirst he'd developed as a result of his...activities, and ducked his head under the showerhead, gasping for air. It wasn't fair! It was only an hour long episode, dammit; and the bastard (at least he had a name for him now: <em>Amando<em>), had only appeared in four scenes! Growling internally, he slicked his wet hair back, grabbed the soap from the shower rack, and began lathering up. He wasn't a horny teenager anymore! His puberty had ended a long time ago! He had _some_ self control, right? This stupid bastard and his stupid _voice_ should _not _have such an effect on him.

But, even when he _had_ been going through puberty he hadn't...he dropped his face in a sudsy palm, exhaling frustratedly. Not...not _that_ much. _Nobody_ jacked off _that_ much. Except maybe France, who was perversion personified, so that didn't count. He scrubbed furiously, trying to wash away the embarrassment along with the evidence. And it'd be one thing if jacking off was all he'd done. It was bad enough that he'd done it _four times_ over the course of the episode (not counting the first time after he'd entered the room), and that he'd finished so embarrassingly quickly the first two. But _no_, he didn't stop there. He'd..._gah_...he'd _fingered_ himself, too; sprawling in his seat and using his own cum as he stroked himself off, and it'd felt so much better than it had any right to, considering that he _hated_ that sort of thing and _never_ touched himself that way.

But that'd been the scene where Amando was talking about horses and how responsive they could be and how a gentle, firm hand and a soft voice could get them to do anything, and it'd been _Amando _stroking him and _Amando's_ fingers inside him and Amando's voice in his ear, saying those _things_ in that _accent_ and _touching_ him that way and he'd have done anything, too. _Anything_.

He shivered, and braced his arms against the shower wall for support at the memory, panting. _Fuck_. He'd be Amando's horse. Amando could ride him anywhere.

_Shit, _what was he _thinking?_ No! He pushed himself off the wall, turning the shower knob a few notches closer to 'cold'. He was _not_ going to lose his head (_too late_, an internal voice whispered), or jack off in the shower, not to a fuckin' _memory_, especially not a memory of something that'd never actually happened with someone who didn't even _exist_, dammit. A fucking _fantasy_.

Besides, his hand ached.

He groaned, running his fingers through his hair, tugging on it. He was losing his _mind_. He grabbed the shower knob again, fiercely twisting it all the way to the right, and yelped.

_Shit_, that was _cold!_

* * *

><p>"Romano~, you missed it!" His brother's eager voice greeted when he staggered into the kitchen a short while later, clean (well, showered, anyway) and clothed and too preoccupied to pay much attention to his sibling. He grunted in response, and going to the fridge to look for something to eat. He was <em>starving<em>, dammit.

"Romano, Romano, guess what?" Veneziano continued excitedly, wriggling in his seat at the table where he was enjoying some post-premiere pasta. "_You'll never guess_. So, the new guy turned out to be Amando, who came to Spain from the Americas— he didn't say why but there were hints that it's something _important_ — and Catalina's father was so grateful that he saved Catalina that he's letting him stay in the mansion, and Amando's going to be his horse trainer! Isn't that _exciting?_" He gestured wildly, waving his arms in the air. "And! And! And! Amando offered to give Catalina some riding lessons, and they had this scene at the end, Romano, you should have seen it, they have _amazing_ chemistry. Oh," he added offhandedly and with little interest, "and there was some tension between him and Juan, but that's just because Juan wants to seduce Catalina."

"Did you eat all the pasta, or is there more?" Romano asked, grabbing a drink and shutting the refridgerator door.

"There's more on the stove." His brother gestured to the pot on the stove, and Romano nodded, going to the cupboard to get himself a plate and dish himself some pasta. "But, oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! That's not even the best part! Romano! Guess!" Veneziano flailed frantically, leaning out of his seat in his excitement, nearly unseating himself. "You'll never guess. You'll _never_ guess, ve~."

"You're gonna fall, idiot." Romano said, sitting down at the table with his pasta and folding his hands and bowing his head over his meal. "Oi," he added sternly when his brother took a deep breath, mouth open to babble at him some more, "wait 'til I've said my prayers." Veneziano obediently clapped his mouth shut, folding his hands in his lap and fidgeting silently while he waited for his brother to finish. Once Romano lifted his head and picked up his fork, Veneziano leaned forward excitedly again, eyes sparkling.

"_Amando_ is-"

"I can't believe it's him." Prussia complained over his shoulder as he entered the kitchen, glass in-hand. "That's so _lame_. How could you let this happen, Spain?"

"I didn't have anything to do with it!" Spain protested, looking irritated and ruffled, himself. "I didn't even know he was here! He can't be here! I would have heard about it, right? It must be some mistake."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's gotta be it. In fact, bet it's not even really him, just someone who looks like him. Like, you know, a doppelgänger or something." Prussia said, trying to convince himself. He pulled a bottle of bottle of amber liquid from the cupboard, filling his glass to the brim as he talked. "In fact, it didn't even really _look_ like him. Totally different, you know," he put the bottle down and waved his hand in front of his face, "face and shit. It was probably just the lighting. Like, special effects."

"Y-you're right." Spain nodded frantically, a man miserably unconvinced but holding on to hope that what he knew he'd just seen wasn't what he _knew_ he'd just seen. "It's not him. It's not him at all, right?"

"Whether you want to believe it or not, it's definitely him." France assured them flippantly, entering just behind Spain. He also looked irritated, although whether it was because the others were doubting him or because it'd taken him so long to figure it out in the first place was a toss-up. "There can be no doubt about it."

"Sure there can," Prussia argued, pouting petulantly as he sat at the table, "I'm doubting it. It isn't him. Didn't look like him. And it can't be who it didn't look like 'cause Spain doesn't know he's not here and it's all _special effects."_

"I didn't even know he was _here._" Spain frowned bewilderedly, dropping into a chair next to Prussia and propping his head in his hands, elbows on the table. "How come I didn't know?" He grabbed the glass from Prussia's hand and downed it, emptying the whole thing in one swallow. He handed the glass back to Prussia and dropped his chin in his hand again, looking miserable.

"If you're going to start drinking, Veneziano and I are leaving." Romano scowled, starting to hurry through his pasta. He knew better than to stick around when these three started in on the alchohol. "Where're Belgium and Netherlands? " Belgium at least would be able to keep Spain from doing anything too stupid.

"They went home." Spain answered offhandedly, "they had some things to do before we go to Lux's later." He rubbed his face in distress, moaning. "It can't be hiiiiiimmm, can it? That bastard wouldn't be here, right? In _my_ house?"

"In your daytime drama." Prussia added unhelpfully, and Spain groaned.

"There's an easy way to settle this." France decided, settling down across from them and pulling out his phone. He pressed a button, and then turned the speakerphone on and set the phone on the table in front of him, turning up the volume so everyone could hear it clearly.

The line rang several times before it was finally picked up. _"Buenos...dias."_ A distinctly feminine voice came over the line, sounding strained and breathless. France's eyebrows slowly climbed, his mouth open in the act of responding. _"_Ah!_ Nnnh." _The woman gasped, and then asked again,_ "¿B-bueno?" _They heard her groan, and gasp. "_Di- _ah!— _Diga."_

"Ah," France shook himself, still looking a little mystified, and answered in Spanish (picked up from years in Spain's company). _"Perdón, doña. ¿Se encuentra..."_ He paused momentarily, trying to decide how to best phrase his inquiry, "_Alfred?"_ he decided finally, assuming he should use the name that had been listed in the credits.

_"Hmm." _The woman hummed noncomittally, sounding displeased, or simply preoccupied, it was difficult to say which. _"¿De parte de quién?"_

France laughed charmingly, trying to soften the woman's reception a little, "_Habla Francis, señorita."_

_"Hm. " _She responded, graciously dubious, and then she must have lowered the phone because they heard her talking to someone in the background, too faint to make out the words.

"I'm going to get some more pasta." Romano decided, standing up from the table with his now-empty plate.

"Oh, can I have some too, Romano? Please~?" Veneziano asked, rapidly stuffing the last of his pasta into his mouth.

"What am I, your slave?" Romano grumbled, holding out his hand for his brother's plate, which Veneziano handed to him with a smile, before returning his attention to what was going on (which Romano was mostly ignoring, knowing from experience that whatever these three were this interested in was probably something he was better off not knowing anything about).

There was a the sound of fumbling through the speaker, presumably the phone passing hands, and a cheerful male voice answered, "Heya Francis. What's up?"

"What's this, no Spanish?" France smiled teasingly, leaning his chin in hand.

"What? Oh, because of Theresa? Nah, she's just Spanish. I'm working with her on..." he paused. "I'm working with her. Oh, hey!" They heard him talk to someone in the background, presumably Theresa, _"Que encontró mis pantalones! Gracias, Theresa!"_

(Now back at the table with his pasta, Lovino's knuckles whitened around his fork, and he stared at the phone sitting in the middle of the table with wide eyes. There was no mistaking that voice. France knew the actor who played Amando? _Shit. Shit, shit, _**shit.**)

_"Mhm." _The voice from before, presumably Theresa's, replied faintly, sounding amused. _"Prisa, ¿eh Alfrrred?"_

_"Si, si."_ His voice became clear once more as he returned to the phone. "Sorry about that, Francis. I'm kinda busy at the moment. Can you make it fast? I've got about five minutes."

"Of course, of course. I won't take up too much of your time, '_Alfrrred.'"_ France smirked, enjoying himself highly. "It's just that I wanted to talk to you about something terribly interesting that I saw a little while ago."

"Okay." Alfred responded, sounding distracted. "Shoot."

(No, Romano thought, not listening to the conversation around him, it was okay. It was okay. He'd just...never see France again. No problem.)

"You see, on occasion your loving big brother Francis gets together with some _dear_ friends of his to watch television together, enjoy each other's company, etcetera. Sort of a bonding exersize, _n'est_-_ce pas_? Good times with good friends."

"Uhuh."

"And, well, it just so happens that there's a show we're all quite fond of, you see?"

"I'm not fond of it." Prussia mumbled, only to be waved to silence by France, who scowled briefly at him.

"'Kay." Alfred said, to show that he was still on the phone. "Uh," He added, when there was a banging sound in the background, like someone was knocking on a door, "one sec, Francis." Again, there was a muffled conversation they couldn't make out in the background, and after a few moments his voice came back, sounding weary. "Okay. I guess I have a half-hour or so now, so take as long as you need."

"Busy day?" France inquired curiously.

Alfred sighed. "Yeah, something like that. Some days nothing seems to go right. So, what were you saying about your friends?"

(Except, Romano realised, spinning his pasta around and around on his fork, he'd been trying to avoid France for centuries, and it'd never worked before. The bastard was a fucking _barnacle_. The fact that he was best friends with Spain didn't help either.)

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about it, _ma chaton?_ I'd be happy to listen to your troubles." Francis offered slyly. "Especially ones that pertain to your ...what was it, 'work', with Theresa, hm?"

"We're not sleeping together." Alfred said flatly. "And I don't really want to talk about work. Just say what you need to say or I'm hanging up, capice?"

"Oh, you speak Italian now? Are there no _end_ to your unexpected talents? This _is_ a day of surprises."

"'Capice' isn't Italian, it's American. Are you gonna stop bein' a dick and tell me what you called about, or what?"

"Touchy, touchy. Well, since you're in such a foul mood today I'll get straight to the point. _Guess_ who I happened to see on television this afternoon?"

(Maybe...maybe he could...he didn't know. Kill France? Romano's mind went on a brief side tangent at that happy thought, entertaining itself with daydreams of the possibilities.)

An irritated, tired sigh. "I don't know, Francis, wh- oh, _shit_."

_"Yes."_ France agreed delightedly.

_"Shit._ I didn't even know you _watched_ soap— you know what, scratch that, I'm actually not surprised." Another frustrated exhale. "_Please _tell me you're the only one who saw it."

"Mmm, I'm afraid I can't do that, _mon petit _Alfred."

"Well, fuck." There was a thump in the background. "Fuck fuck fuck fuckity-fuck _fuck_."

(No, he realized glumly. That would never work. France was like, fucking impossible to kill. Otherwise England would have done it already.)

France giggled.

"Look, Francis." Alfred said, urgently. "You can't tell anyone about this, okay? I mean, you know, any of the others. I don't really mind if they know, it's just that I don't want anyone we know to know, y'know? It's..." He trailed off, obviously searching for words.

"Ve~, why don't you want anyone to know? I thought you were very good!" Veneziano asked curiously, leaning onto the table to be closer to the phone.

(...Maybe he was overreacting. Just because France knew the guy didn't mean he had to meet him, right? They'd probably...never cross paths.)

"...And I'm on speakerphone. Of course I am. Ahaha." A pause, a deep breath. "Thanks, I'm glad you liked it!" He said, suddenly sounding more cheerful. "I just wanted it to be a surprise!"

"I was very surprised!" Veneziano assured him, wriggling further onto the table 'til he was hovering over the reciever. "We didn't even recognize you at first!"

(In fact, they never would! Why would they? It was ludicrous to think they would. He didn't hang out with actors.)

"...We?"

"All of us! Me and brother and Belgium and her brother and big brother Spain and-"

"Ahahaha." Alfred's laugh sounded a little hysterical. "Great! That's...that's really great. Just, just awesome. I, uh, yes. It's wonderful that you're all fans of the series!"

(In fact, he hardly ever hung out with France, either; except when France was visiting Spain or stalking him or his brother or at world meetings, but what would a soap opera actor be doing at world meetings? He was definitely safe.)

"I'm not a fan." Prussia mumbled, sulking petulantly. France shushed him.

"So. _Alfred._" France leaned forward, grinning a little predatorially. "Why don't you tell us how this _marvelous_ little secret of yours came to be?"

"What?" Alfred asked blankly.

"Come on, don't play dumb with me. How on earth did _you_ land a role in the hottest daytime drama in _Spain_?"

"Oh. You want the official version or what really happened?"

"Is there a difference?"

"Dude, of course. This is _television_. Even 'real life' is scripted."

(Romano frowned, poking at his pasta. Maybe he was thinking about this all wrong. He wasn't...reacting, now, right? Except for the moment when the actor had ...spoken in...S-Spanish... he shivered a little, and took a deep breath to calm his reaction to the memory. Except, except for...then, he was perfectly fine, right? Normal.)

"The truth, then."

"Kay, fine. Lemme make sure no-one's listening." They heard some rustling and clattering in the background, and he talked, a little absently, as he checked for eavesdroppers. "Y'know, Spain is _insane_. I have never been groped so much in my fuckin' _life_. And the director's a total creeper, man, you have no idea. If it weren't for Theresa I'd be doing every scene buck naked, I swear. Amando would have a clothing allergy or something, I don't know. You don't even want to _know_ what I'm wearing for pants right now, ahahaha, " he laughed a little helplessly, "except you totally will, won't you, 'cause you watch the show, isn't that great."

"You sound a little upset,_ mon chaton."_ France said, exersizing his keen observational skills.

"Well, I am and I'm not. I mean, I actually really love the acting. And Theresa is great." He confessed. "It's just, I don't really like being treated like a sex object." France and Spain and Prussia exchanged confused glances.

(So it wasn't like it was the actor that got that reaction from him, right? It was... A-Amando. So, so the actor shouldn't be a problem, right? He just..._reacted_... to the character.)

"I knew he was an idiot, but I didn't know he was _insane_." Prussia stared incredulously at the phone. Spain shook his head, disbelief clear on his face.

(Right. Of course right, dammit. He was...attrac— ...uh...it was just...Amando. Not the actor. He only reacted to Amando. So, that was fine. No problem. Right?)

"Alfred, darling, you really must learn to let go of this nonsensical American prudishness of yours." France said paternally. "Of _course_ you're a sex object, silly boy."

(It was weird he'd react to the bastard's voice like that, though. It was almost like an allergic reaction— except instead of a rash, he got... aroused.)

"Why else do you think you were given a penis, if not to—"

"SO ANYWAY HOW I GOT THE JOB," Alfred interrupted quickly, breaking through Romano's reverie, "I was on the beach in Spain, right? And this woman comes riding along on this _fabulous _horse— did you see the horse? His name is _Cantante_. He's fucking _gorgeous_—"

"Yes, he is!" Spain agreed enthusiastically. "He's very handsome, isn't he? How old is he?"

"He's about 3 and a half. He shouldn't even be broke to ride yet, but I guess he was a present to the producer's wife and she doesn't really ride so they decided to use him in the show. Which was kind of stupid, 'cause he was barely even greenbroke, but I don't think they know much about horses."

Spain hummed disapprovingly. "That's a shame. Such a beautiful animal shouldn't go to waste."

"I know, right? They're letting me work with him though, between shoots and after filming's done for the day, and it's awesome. He's so smart!"

"Of course he is, he's of the _Yeguada Militar_ bloodline, isn't he?" Spain asserted confidently. "He looks like he could be a son of _Evento_."

"That's right!" Alfred said excitedly. "He _is!_ I checked his pedigree. How did you know!"

"I know my horses." Spain grinned, just as excitedly. "He's beautiful though! Such a waste to have an animal of such potential underappreciated."

"I know, it's totally not cool." Alfred agreed. "I'm working with him now, though. I'm kind of hoping I can convince the producer's wife to sell him to me someday. Oh! Hey, I was thinking of collecting some semen for my breeding program. You want me to get you some, too?"

"That's very nice of you!" Spain waved his hands in the air, beaming. "That would be wonderful! I'd love to add _Evento_'s blood to my stock!"

"Sweet. I wanna wait a bit just to make sure he's sound and doesn't have any congenital defects or behavioural issues, first. I don't think he will though, he's such a sweetheart, and smart as a _whip_." He said proudly, like a doting parent bragging about their child's exceptionally good report card. "I've only been working with him for a couple of weeks, and _already_ he's—"

"As _fascinating_ as it is to hear you two go on and on about horses and semen," France interjected dryly, "your half an hour is almost up, and we have yet to hear how you landed the role."

"Oh, right. Sorry. Where was I? Oh right, the beach. And Theresa comes along on _Cantante_, and he gets spooked— totally not his fault, by the way; I checked him after we got back and —"

_"Alfred."_

"Right, sorry, okay. So I jump in to help, and get him calmed down and make sure she's okay, which she was, and then she says she might not keep him so I convince her to give him another chance, 'cause it'd be a _shame_ to lose such a fine animal for somethin' like that, _Cantante_'s _such_ a sweetheart, really—"

"Alfred..."

"Right, right. So anyway, yeah. I offer to escort her back to wherever she was stayin' to make sure it didn't happen again and make sure she was really gonna give him another chance, or maybe see if she was willing to sell, 'cause you don't see a horse like that every day, y'know?" France pursed his lips impatiently, not really willing to sit through another digression about the wonders of _Cantante_, but Alfred only continued with his story. "But then these guys come running up and start going on and on about how the 'scene was amazing' and shit, and, well, long story short they'd been filming for _Forever is Not Long Enough_. Originally Theresa— that is, Catalina— was supposed to be abducted by pirates, but _Cantante_ spooked before they got to the pirates and when I showed up, well, they liked what they saw. So, I got cast as 'Amando.'"

"What were you doing in Spain?" Spain asked, having been wondering this for some time.

"Oh. Well, I was going to see Mount Vesuvius, 'cause I wanted to see if it was true about the virgins, but the skiff capsized."

"...What?" The faces around the table mirrored each others' confusion.

"The skiff capsized. You know, sank."

"So...how did you get to Spain?" Veneziano wondered, brows furrowed confusedly.

"Haha, I swam, silly."

"Oh." Veneziano nodded, satisfied by that 'explanation'. Everyone else, however, remained unenlightened as Alfred continued.

"Yeah. Actually I wasn't sure about accepting the role at first, but as it turns out my boss's mom and sisters are _huge_ fans of Spanish soaps. So when they heard about it, they were so excited I just couldn't let 'em down." He chuckled, adding, "And actually, it's pretty fun. The acting, anyway. The script's so corny! But being treated like a peice of meat I could do without."

"Weirdo." Prussia shook his head. There came another banging sound in the background over the phone, and someone yelling unintelligibly.

"Ah, I gotta go, I'm due on set. Keep this to yourselves guys, 'kay?" Alfred asked, without much hope that they would. "Oh— Antonio, I'll get you that semen as soon as I can. Bye."

The assembled nations stared at the phone in the center of the table, as the dial tone rang clear and steady.

"Well," said Prussia. "Anyone else need a drink?"

"Yes, please." France nodded, collecting his phone and pocketing it. "Thanks."

"Make it a double for me." Spain gestured. "It's very nice of him to offer me semen. The things I could do with such a bloodline!" He accepted the glass Prussia handed him without looking up, staring starry-eyed into the future of his breeding program, envisioning wobbly-legged foals, the offspring of champions, that would grow into superb champions in their own right. Then he blinked, frowning, remembering that he still wasn't thrilled about having the noisy, obnoxious, empire-collapsing bastard on his soil and in his entertainment, semen or no semen.

"C'mon Veneziano, time to go." Romano hauled his brother off the table, seeing the alchohol flowing freely in the hands of the trio.

"Okay~. Bye Spain, bye Prussia, bye France!" Veneziano waved as they left. "See you tomorrow for the next episode!"

"No you won't, bastard. We are never watching that show again."

The three left at the table glanced at each other surreptitiously, no-one wanting to be the first to say they wanted to watch it again.

"Well, America may be a shit actor," Prussia said slowly, staring into his drink, "but that Catalina chick is hot."

"You're right." Spain nodded, sipping his own drink and avoiding eye contact.

"It's practically worth watching the show for her alone." France said in nonchalant, 'I'm just throwing this out there' tones, tapping his fingers on his own glass.

"You have a point." Prussia nodded, frowning thoughtfully.

"It'd be a shame to miss out on Catalina's charms." Spain agreed. "Just because that bastard American happens to be in some scenes."

"Hardly any scenes, really." Prussia pointed out. "The show's about Catalina, right?"

"You're right, you're right. He hardly shows up at all."

"True."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Alright. We'll watch it tomorrow. For Catalina." France decided finally, raising his glass. The others followed suit. Glasses clinked.

_"For Catalina_._"_

* * *

><p>"Ve~, are we <em>really<em> not going to watch it anymore?" Veneziano asked as his brother shoved him into the passenger side of the convertible, sliding into the driver's seat after him. "Never and ever?"

"That's right, bastard." Romano confirmed, slamming the door and starting the car. "Never and ever."

"But," Veneziano pouted, growing teary-eyed, "How will we know what happens between Amando and Catalina? Or why Amando came to Spain? Or how Ama—"

"I don't give a shit about that, dammit." Romano growled, tearing out of their parking space and down the street, from zero to sixty at the press of a pedal. "We're _never_ watching that stupid show again, _ever."_

His brother stared at him, frowning. "...Is this because of your broken heart?"

"What?" Romano glanced quizzically at his brother. "What the hell are you talking about, idiot?"

"Your broken heart!" Veneziano informed him. "You know, because you're in love with—"

_"It's not love!"_ Shouted Romano, scowling at the road. "It's an allergic reaction, dammit!"

"...You have an allergic reaction to Catalina?" Veneziano asked, brows furrowing in confusion.

"What? What does Catalina have to do with anything, moron?" Romano asked, just as confused.

"France said you were upset because you're in love with Catalina, and Amando is competing for her affections." Veneziano explained. "If you're not allergic to Catalina, then what are you allergic to, Romano?"

"...Nothing." Romano tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "I...was thinking about something else."

"Oh." Veneziano nodded, settling down in his seat. "So, if you're not allergic to Catalina, can we watch it again?"

"No!"

"Because of your broken heart?"

"My heart isn't broken, dammit!"

His brother pursed his lips, unconvinced. Romano'd had a crush on Catalina from the first episode of the series, and had been a little upset when Pedro had come along, too (although Pedro had eventually won his brother's grudging approval when he rescued Catalina from the slave traders were going to sell her to the pirates, saving her life and virginity in one fell swoop.) It would make sense if he was upset that Amando had come out of nowhere just when Catalina had become available again. But, he really wanted to watch the show! He wanted to know what was going to happen, and learn why Amando had come to Spain and what Catalina's family's terrible secret was! But how could he convince Romano...?

"You like Catalina, right, Romano?"

His brother shifted in his seat. "...Yes."

"But, you don't like Amando, right, ve~?"

"..."

"Right? Amando's the reason you don't want to watch the show anymore?" Veneziano pressed.

"...Yyyes." Romano answered slowly, staring at the road ahead.

Veneziano nodded in satisfaction. He knew it. After all, France was almost _always _right. "So, if you like Catalina, you want to know what happens to her, right? And Amando will probably have hardly any scenes, 'cause he's just a background character, but Catalina will have lots, 'cause she's the _main_ character! So Amando will probably hardly show up at _all_." Veneziano pointed out reasonably, "He's only the horse trainer, after all. In fact, I bet he won't even appear in some episodes. Maybe he'll only show up now and then, like the Baron. Probably not even once in three or four episodes, sometimes. Maybe more!"

Romano frowned. "...You think?"

"Sure! And it'd be a shame to miss Catalina just because Amando _might_ show up, don't you think? She appears in so much more of the show. And don't you want to find out what her terrible family secret is?"

Romano pursed his lips. "Well..."

"It's _Catalina's_ show, really. And she's very pretty. And brave. And spirited. And she's pretty, ve~!"

His brother nodded, somewhat reluctantly.

"So we could watch it for Catalina, right? Not for Amando. Just for Catalina!"

"F-for Catalina?" Romano's brows furrowed uncertainly, his hands shifting on the wheel.

Veneziano smiled. He almost had him, he could feel it! "Yes! For Catalina, ve~. Not for Amando."

"Well..." Romano hesitated. "...okay. For, for Catalina. Not for A, Ama," He swallowed. "..._him."_

"That's right, ve~!"

"But we're not watching it with those bastards." Romano asserted, recovering his composure a bit. "Belgium's fine, but I don't want to be anywhere around that asshole France or that potato-fucking Prussia. Or Spain, when he's anywhere around those two."

"We can watch it at home." Veneziano assured him, smiling in satisfaction at his success convincing his brother. "I can make us lots of pasta!"

"Okay." Romano nodded. "For Catalina, got it? Not for...for that bastard."

"For Catalina." Veneziano agreed.

"F-for Catalina." Romano muttered to convince himself, fingers drumming against the wheel.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I wasn't expecting America to go on that little horse tangent, but hey. Horses are awesome. If you don't know much about them, Andalusians are a Spanish breed of horse, a bit rare in America. They, like Lipizzaners and certain other breeds, are not usually started under the saddle (by <strong>good <strong>breeders and trainers) or ridden until they're at least 4-6 years old, because their bodies haven't stopped growing until then and so riding them before that age can damage their skeletal system and development. Of course, that doesn't stop impatient people from breaking them younger, which usually ends in health problems which only exacerbate as the horses grow older. _

_Collecting semen from stallions (and bulls) to use for artificial insemination of mares (and cows) is a common practice among breeders. It prevents wear and tear on both stallion and mare, prevents parasitic and sexually-communicated infections, __and extends the productive capabilities of the stallion; because you can use the semen gathered from one ejaculation to inseminate multiple mares, whereas during a 'natural' breeding one shot is all you got. Owners of stallions 'at stud' commonly ship cooled or frozen semen to breeders for a reasonable price, usually $400-2000 depending on the breed and credentials of the stallion. _

_Anyway. I have no intention of explaining America's little story there in the story proper, so you get a shortened version: He was in Hawaii visiting a friend, there was a luau, partygoers got drunk and started talking about Kilauea, they exchanged wild volcano stories, America got upset about the virgins, the host of the party claimed that the volcano god of Vesuvius probably got mad and destroyed Pompeii because there weren't any virgins for him since Romans were always having orgies, America decided to go and confront the volcano god of Vesuvius about that, which the whole party thought was a grand idea. They got as far as Costa Rica in the host's yaht, but they decided to stop there and party some more. America, determined to finish his quest for justice, hopped a navy cruiser bound for Portugal, and from Portugal he bought a skiff to sail 'round Spain to get to Italy, but the skiff capsized in the Balearic Sea when a couple of the giant devil rays he was playing with got a little too excited and tried to jump in the boat, which although big enough for an American, was somewhat less commodious to the weight of two 1500-odd lb fish. Once he'd surfaced and assured the rays he was alright, he ended up swimming back to Spain, and the rest is history. Or, you know, not. _

_And now you know. (But Romano still doesn't, because he was busy Not Paying Attention.)_


	3. Meet Alfred

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

_America's scenes are translated from Spanish; which is to say, I didn't bother writing them in Spanish because although he is in Spain, with Spaniards, speaking Castellano (or Español, as it pleases you), this is a story written in English, and having most of the dialogue in another language would be confusing, and draw the reader out of the story, which is very poor storytelling indeed. Yes, I could put the translations at the bottom, but unless you only have three or four lines (such as in previous chapters), then you'll very quickly lose the thread of what's going on since you have to continuously scroll down, and back up, and lose your place, and try and remember which line you want the translation for, and really it's just bad business. Yes, I will have actual Spanish when appropriate (such as when America is talking to Theresa offscenes in the phone conversation), so no worries there, there'll be plenty of multilingual!America throughout the story, whenever it won't interfere with flow and comprehension._

* * *

><p>"Thanks again for tying my corset, Alfred."<p>

America looked over to where Theresa stood just off-set, pinning her hair up in preparation for the coming scene, and nodded. "No problem."

She flashed him a smile, and returned her attention to her hair, checking it in the mirror. "Who was that ..._person_ who called for you? Francis, was it?" She wrinkled her nose in distaste, carefully positioning a few curls to come loose from her elaborate coif partway through the scene, to add an 'untameable' element to her character's appearance. "He sounded like a pervert."

"He's my uncle." America said absently, scanning the set and noting the cues in red tape on the floor, indicating where Amando should stand. "Well, sort of."

Theresa paused in the act of putting on her earrings. "I'm sorry." She apologized. "Maybe not a pervert, then."

"Oh, no, he's a pervert." He affirmed. "You got that right." She threw back her head and laughed (but carefully, so as not to dislodge her curls before their time).

"You poor boy." She said, observing his hunted look at the director and stagehands, who watched him with a hungry, lacivious light in their eyes, male and female alike. "You're surrounded, aren't you?"

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to cover his front and his backside at the same time. "It's not like this at home."

Her smile widened at his pout and blush, and she shook her head. "It's your own fault, you know. You're not helping yourself by—"

"Alfred!" The director called, striding up to them. America turned, and backed away a few paces when the man stopped a few inches in front of him, staring at his pants. "Alfred," the director said, falsely obsequious, "I don't think you noticed, sweetheart, but you're still wearing your boxers."

"Uh," America shifted, still trying to shield himself. "I thought I could wear them for this scene. Since, y'know, it's going to be mostly closeup shots."

"Alfred." The director smiled in a way that he probably thought was kindly, but was really several degrees closer to sleezy, and placed his hand on America's bare bicep, ignoring the way America flinched under his touch.

"Um," America lowered his head, his blond hair covering his eyes as he spoke to the ground, like a scolded schoolboy, "it's, it's just that...I don't really think that these p-pants are really the best for horse training, and— "

"Alfred, Alfred." The director chuckled, rubbing the arm under his hand and leaning in as though to speak privately, though his voice was loud enough to carry across the set, "You're not here to think, boy, you're here to act. And while you're a _superb_ actor, darling," he smiled, his hand sliding down to rest on America's lower back, "_thinking_ isn't really your strong suit. So why don't you leave the 'thinking' to me, and take them off, there's a good boy." He patted his rear condescendingly, making America start.

"O-okay." America gave in. "I'll, I'll just go and—"

"No," The director shook his head, eyes gleaming as they travelled down Alfred's frame. "you've wasted enough time already. There's no time for you to go back to your room, so you'll have to take it off here."

"But—"

"There's no time for that." Theresa interrupted imperiously, hands on her hips. "We are late as it is. We'll just have to film the scene with his underwear on, and he can remove them when we film the next scene. I'm not waiting around for the idiot to disrobe for a scene that isn't even shot below the waist. Besides," she scoffed, clearly irritated, crimson lip curling slightly, "the little fool takes _far_ too long to tie all those laces. We'd be here all night."

"Well..." The directer frowned, reluctant to lose the opportunity, but unwilling to vex his top star. Besides, she was right, they _were_ on a tight schedule.

Theresa exhaled through her nose, and stepped forward to slide her arm through the directors, pulling him aside. "Look," she said, in the tones of a diva being incredibly patient and reasonable with lesser beings despite her rising temper, "we don't have _time_ for this. But I'll tell you what. Let the kid do this shot in his underwear, and I'll take him aside after the set and have a little talk with him, hm? I'm sure he'll be more..." she smiled brightly, "_accommodating_ after I explain some things to him."

"Ah." Said the director, brightening. "You think— " He cut himself off as she arched a fine brow.

"You doubt me?" She asked archly, still smiling brightly, but somehow the director subconsciously began to have visions of sharks, and tigers, and dangerous things in the dark.

"No, no, Theresa." He said hastily. "Not at all. You're right, of course."

"Now, I know I'm not the director here," Theresa managed to give the impression of tossing her head, without actually having to do so and loosen her carefully arranged curls, "and 'thinking' isn't my job, but I think we should get on with the filming, don't you?"

"O-of course, Theresa." The director spun on his heel, bellowing across the set, "What's everyone standing around for! Take your places! Quiet on set!"

"Thanks, Theresa." America whispered to her in relief as they took their places on set.

"We _are_ going to have that talk after this set, Alfred." Theresa informed him under her breath as he took her in his arms from behind, pressing her back against his chest; and schooling her face into an appropriately 'startled and entraptured' expression for what Catalina was experiencing. "There's some things you need to know if you're doing to make it."

"Okay." He murmured softly behind her ear, burying his nose her hair, a light flush dusting his cheekbones, eyes burning under lowered lashes as Amando was caught up in the passion of the moment, "''f you say so."

"And, ACTION!"

"A-A_mando."_ Catalina gasped, shocked by his sudden proximity, but unable to deny her attraction as she trembled in his strong arms.

"You are...so beautiful, Catalina." Amando murmured into her hair, unconsciously tightening his arms around her. "Something about you is...irresistible."

"Ah! A, Amando," Catalina's breath caught, her head falling back against his shoulder as he nuzzled her neck. A curl spilled from her coif to drape across her right breast, emphasizing the way her chest heaved as she spoke, "you're drunk, it's...it's the wine speaking, _ahh!_"

"Drunk?" Amando drew his fingers down the side of her face, and her mouth opened reflexively, her cheeks flushing, "Yes, perhaps I am." He wrapped her errant curl around his fingers, drawing them down the length of dark silk, 'til his fingertips brushed the curve of her breast, "But not on wine. On _you_, Catalina." He closed his eyes, breathing the words against her temple. "You intoxicate me, Catalina. You always have." He pressed soft kisses to her neck, urged on by every moan and gasp of pleasure his touch elicited, the way she trembled against him. "Ever since I first set eyes on you, shining so bright that you rivaled the sun, I knew I would want you, love you, and I do, Catalina, I do."

"Amando, _no," _Catalina closed her eyes, torn between her conscience and the feelings he was evoking in her, a tear coursing her cheek, "no, please, don't say that, you musn't say that,"

"But it's true, Catalina." Amando slid his fingers under her chin, gently turning her head back to face him, and she opened her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, to gaze into his. "I'm drunk with love for you, Catalina. If you'll allow me to drink of you, taste you, touch you...I'll do anything. I'll be your slave if you ask if of me. I'm already slave to your love." He traced the pad of his thumb across her parted lips, lowering his head to kiss her, "I love—"

"Don't say it!" Catalina turned her head away, her curls slipping loose around her face and neck, crying in earnest now. "Please, Amando, please, I, I _can't..."_

Amando's eyes flickered, and he paled, appalled at his loss of control. He released her as if she burned, backing away rapidly, leaving her sobbing into her hands several paces away. He made to step forward again when he realised her distress, hand extended in concern, but remembering he had caused it he thought better of it, letting it drop to his side. "I, I'm so sorry." He stammered, turning his own face away in shame. "I, I don't know what came over me. Please..." He paused, swallowing hard, closing his eyes in anguish. "You're right, it was the wine, forget what I said, I'm, I'm not in my right mind." He turned away, his back to her, and turned his head, face a shadowed profile above bare shoulders. His voice trembled. "I...there's no excuse for...I, I cannot hope for forgiveness. I," his voice broke, "I never meant to cause you pain. You're...you're a wonderful woman, Catalina. So...very special. I'm... so sorry." He walked away, Catalina's soft sobs echoing in the silence of the stable.

"Annnd, CUT!"

Theresa lifted her head, brushing her hair back from her face and wiping her tears in a businesslike fashion. America relaxed, running a hand through his hair and looking back at her, waiting for her cue. "I'm taking lunch." She announced, and the director frowned, opening his mouth. She put her hand on her hip, arching her eyebrow. "What, do we need to do another take?" She asked, knowing that it'd been perfect. The director shook his head.

"No. No, you got it in one take, as usual." He admitted begrudgingly, reflecting with a touch of admiration on the advantages to having two actors of their caliber in the cast.

She nodded, once. "Then Alfred and I shall be going to lunch, and you can film the scenes with Frederico and the others in the meantime. You don't mind, do you, 'Rico?" She smiled charmingly at the actor who played Catalina's father, who was playing canasta with some of the stage hands and other actors just off-set. He smiled amiably back, shaking his head. "See? We can film the rest of mine and Alfred's scenes when we get back."

"But, Theresa," The director made to protest, glancing at America's stubbornly boxer-clad rear end, "we were going to—"

"I'm hungry." Theresa shifted her stance, jutting her hip and narrowing her eyes. "You _know _how I get when I'm hungry._"_

"O-of course." The director nodded, and glanced over to Alfred again, licking his lips hopefully. "And you and Alfred are going to...?"

"Have a little talk over lunch." Theresa's lips curved up in a cheshire smile. "One actor to another."

The director beamed. "Alright everyone! Take five, and then we'll do scenes 12, and 16 through 18!" He waved Theresa and America off, winking at the star of the show. "You two take as long as you need."

"Oh, we will." Theresa smiled, and turned, sliding her arm through America's. "Come along, Alfred. It's time for lunch."

"Okay!" He nodded, asking hopefully, "Will there be ice cream?"

"If you're a good boy, there just might."

"Yay!"

* * *

><p>Theresa leaned her elbow on the table on the balcony of the little cafe where she'd decided to lunch, watching her newest co-star eat his ice cream. He wasn't her co-star yet, technically; Amando being only a background character, but Theresa recognised star-quality when she saw it, and knew it was only a matter of time before he was a major player in the show, if not in the entertainment industry in general. If he was a woman she would most likely have had to have ended him instantly, ruthlessly cut him out of the show and had him blacklisted; she couldn't afford the competition, not this late into her career— she was on top, now, and meant to stay there. But he wasn't, thankfully, and he was too innocent and harmless to be of any real threat to her. Oh, if she was less talented or less capable he might have eclipsed her, easily; he shone so bright; but she was fully capable of shining brilliantly in her own right, and knew it, and knew how to make everyone else know it, too.<p>

Besides, she couldn't help but like Alfred. He was so sweet and naive and adorably idealistic. It was refreshing, but it was going to cause him trouble. Already was. Alfred was a little boy in a man's body, and he didn't know what to do with it, yet. The attention he was getting, the nature of it, made him uncomfortable, unsettled him; and that made him _vulnerable_. He didn't realise the _power_ he had, or how to use it. But, she might be able to help him, there. Depending on what he was willing to do, and if she could make him understand.

"Alfred," he looked up, curious, and really _nobody_ over the age of ten should look that cute with ice cream on their nose. She couldn't help but smile, melting a little at his stupidity, and reached across to wipe it off with a napkin as she continued, "why are you here? Doing this job. You're obviously not comfortable with it."

"Oh. Well," he looked down at his ice cream, fiddling with the cone, and she couldn't help shaking her head a little in wonder as she watched his face fall, his shoulder slump. It was hard to believe that he could be _any_ good at acting, watching him like this. Alfred the _actor_ was brilliant, but Alfred the man-boy hid nothing, every thought and emotion clearly displayed in face and body, every reaction honest and from the heart. _That_ was going to have to change. At least, in public; or else he would be eaten _alive_. "my, well...there's this lady who's always been really nice to me. She's, uh, kind of like my mom. She sorta adopted me, y'know. Took me under her wing and stuff. And, well, she's been going through some tough times lately, some health problems and stuff. And, well, she and her daughters love this show. It's their favourite, so when they heard I might be in it they all got really excited. She's really proud of me, and I really don't want to let her down, you know?"

"So you're a mommy's boy, huh?" Theresa teased lightly, fighting a grin. Somehow, that wasn't a surprise. "Is that the only reason you're still here?"

"No," Alfred straightened, and quickly licked the melting ice cream from the rim of his cone before they could dribble onto his hand or other surfaces, getting it all over his nose again as he did so, "I actually really like it! The acting part, I mean. It's really fun and cool! I like becoming Amando. I like figuring out why he's doing the stuff he's doing, and getting into his head and emotions, and making up reasons for them. Like," he leaned forward, eyes lighting excitedly, "how he's really polite to everyone, courteous and helpful and a little flirtatious, but he doesn't really tell anyone anything about himself. He's been at the mansion for a couple of weeks now, and the only thing anyone knows about him is that he's good with horses, and comes from the Americas, and that was back in the season premiere. Amando shows up a lot, and he's always got a joke or a teasing remark, he makes people laugh and smile, but doesn't really get _close_ to anyone. Except the horses." He grinned a little, and Theresa couldn't help grinning back.

"Like someone else we know."

He chuckled, but waved that off. "That's different. I think Amando doesn't want to get close to people, for some reason. I think he uses politeness and flirtation as a way to keep people at bay. To keep them from getting too close."

"You think he's been hurt before?" Theresa asked, interested in his interpretation of the character, and making mental notes for her own portrayal of Caterina.

"Maybe." Alfred tilted his head a little, thinking. "It almost feels like he's protecting something. Or trying to keep from getting attached, or both. I don't know yet." He grinned, leaning his head in his hand. "But I want to keep playing him, and find out. But I think that's why he's so hot and cold around Caterina. He keeps letting her get close, and opening up to her, and they have some tension and a moment, and then he realises what he's doing and pulls away and covers it up with a joke, or by teasing her or somethin'."

"Mm." Theresa nodded, reaching across the table to wipe the ice cream off his nose again. "So you're determined to see it through, then? I mean, you'll stay with the show."

"Of course!" Alfred pumped his fist in a show of determination. "I'm a hero! A hero always sees it through to the end!"

"It's going to be a very short end if you don't change your attitude towards your..." she lifted her eyebrows significantly, "'fans'. And showing skin. And sex."

He blushed, turning his attention to his ice cream, and looked away.

"Don't ignore me, Alfred. I'm very serious, honey."

"I'm not ignoring you." He muttered embarrassedly to his ice cream. "And I _don't_ mind taking off my clothes. Usually. It's just...I don't like the way they keep _looking _at me here. And, _touching_ me and stuff. Or ..." he lowered his voice further, so she had to strain to hear, "_say_ things about...m-my...me." He faltered, blush deepening.

"Oh, Alfred." Theresa's lips twitched, as she tried to keep from laughing. "You really are hopeless. Are all Americans so naive?"

"I'm not naive." He protested, pouting childishly. "It's just—"

"Alfred." She stated authoritatively, straightening and lifting a finger. "Sex is a tool. And you, my boy, are young to learn to use it."

"What?" He hissed, hunching in embarrassment, face and neck flaming. "I can't do that!"

"Oh yes you can. And you will." Theresa told him. "You're not a person anymore, honey. You're an _actor. _Sex is what we _do_." She paused, trying to think of how to explain it so he would understand. "Look at me, for example. Have you noticed that the director and the others don't treat me the same way as you? They don't grope me, or say those things about me, do they? Oh, they still look," she waved a hand dismissively, "but they don't take it further, do they."

"Of course not!" He exclaimed, looking scandalised. "You're a _girl! _It's one thing if it's me, but you can't do that to _girls!_ That's _harassment! _That's like, super-wrong! Nobody would let them get away with it!"

She stopped, mouth open. Then, very slowly, she put her face in her hand, eyes screwed shut, and her shoulders started to shake. He leaned forward, concerned.

"Theresa?"

"Oh, Alfred." She laughed helplessly, sliding down in her chair. "Don't ever change, okay?"

"I'll...try not to?" Alfred said, smiling in tentative confusion.

"Oh. Oh." Theresa sighed, dabbing tears of laughter from her eyes with a handkerchief. "America must be a _very_ interesting place. I'll have to visit sometime."

"That would be great! I'll show you around." Alfred beamed, excitement returning. "We can—"

"Later, Alfred, later." She flapped her hand, and took a deep breath, placing her forearms on the table and becoming more serious. "I think I know what we can do." She said, tilting her head consideringly. "I have an idea. Alfred. We're going to create a character."

"For the show?" Alfred asked interestedly.

"No. We are going to create 'Alfred.'" Theresa smiled victoriously.

"But..._I'm_ Alfred." Alfred said, confused again.

"_You_, are Alfred the man-bo— man. But you are going to _become_ Alfred: the Actor." Theresa gestured expressively. "Alfred the Actor is going to be who you are professionally. You'll be Alfred the Actor on set, in public, at parties, during interviews...anything requiring you to be so. You remember how you said Armando uses his courtesy as a way to keep people at bay?" Alfred nodded hesitantly. "Well, we're going to do something like that. Alfred the Actor is going to be charming, handsome, _devastatingly_ sexy, and _completely_ inaccessible_._ We're going to build him a history. He's going to have a full backstory. I'll help you spread it. You, as Alfred, are going to use charm, and sex, to keep people at a distance. You see?"

"..I don't really have to have sex though, do I?" Alfred asked, shifting uncomfortably.

"No. But people will _think_ you do. That's the important thing about sex, Alfred." She leaned forward, lifting her finger authoritatively. "When it comes to acting, the promise, the _illusion_, is far, far more important than the act. Promise, with your eyes, with your expression, with your body language: a glance, a look- the _promise_ of sex. But never, ever follow through." She sat back in her seat, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "The thing to remember about actors, and fans, and anyone connected to this industry... a _good story_ is more important than the truth. Tell them something they'll want to believe, and they will. In fact, just _hinting_ at it is more than enough. What you _don't_ say is just as important, if not more, than what you _do_." She gestured to her body. "Your body is your tool. All of it. Your eyes, your voice, from your head to your toe, every part of you is your instrument. _Use_ it. Make them see what you want them to see. Believe what you want them to believe. If they look at you a way you don't like, use your body to make them look at you a way you do. But _think ahead—"_ she cautioned, lifting her finger once more, when he opened his mouth to ask a question, and he closed it again to listen, "you _could_ make the director, and the others, stop thinking of you in a sexual fashion. _But_, it would be best if instead, you _changed_ the way they look at you. _Use_ their desires to get what you want. Make yourself charming, and unattainable, and above all still _desirable_, and the world is your oyster. You understand?"

"You mean Alfred the Actor's oyster." Alfred corrected, brows furrowing.

"Yes." Theresa smiled, pleased. "Now you've got the idea. Create the character, and step into the role. Take him on. It's not _you_, Alfred, it's _Alfred_, the actor. Charming, charismatic, inaccessible."

"Okay. I think I understand." He nodded, gaze turning inward as his brain worked, building a new character, fleshing him out, pulling references from his past. He paused a moment, asking carefully, "But I don't _actually_ have to have sex with anyone."

"Not if you don't want to." Theresa nodded.

"'kay, good." Alfred relaxed a little, relieved. "'Cause I dont think I'd be able to do that. Making love is something you should only do with someone special. Someone you love and care about."

Theresa sighed, settling her chin back in her hand, and lifted her eyebrows at him. "Someday, Alfred, someone's going to drag you into their bed and into their heart, and you won't even see it coming." She said resignedly. "I just really, really hope they're kind."

"Huh?" Alfred cocked his head, not understanding.

"Don't worry about it." She flashed him a smile. "Big sister Theresa will look out for you. Now." She sat up again, placing both hands down on the table. "Let's get started on making you a new man, hm?"

"Okay!" Alfred nodded eagerly. "I think I have some ideas. What do you think of this..."

* * *

><p>"Oh, <em>Alfred." <em>Theresa simpered, giggling as she returned to the set on the arm of her fellow actor. "You _do_ go on."

Every eye on set and off swung to view the couple coming into view, seemingly too caught up in each other to notice that they were very nearly back on set already. The two stopped in the low light just off-set, far enough away to appear as though they wanted to converse privately before announcing their return.

"I assure you, Tessa darling, I meant every word." Alfred assured her smoothly, with a charming smile, and lifted her hand to his lips, winking as he pressed a kiss to the backs of her fingers, raising several eyebrows on set. Theresa brushed prettily, toying with the ends of her hair.

"I'm _so_ glad we had that little... _talk_, Alfred." She almost-murmured, low enough so it sounded intimate but loudly enough to carry over the set to dozens of curious ears. "You certainly know how to show a girl a good time. If ever you change your mind about—"

Alfred held up a finger to his lips, smile still charming but now sweet and a little sad, somehow. "Remember, sweetheart, you promised not to tell."

"Of course." Theresa lowered her eyes, placing her hand on his forearm, and leaned forward, gazing up at him through lowered lashes, eyes shining with sympathy. "I won't tell _anyone _your secret. You have my word."

"I know." Alfred smiled warmly, running a finger down her cheek. "Now, shall we return to the set?"

"I suppose we should." Theresa replied almost-reluctantly, sighing. He flashed a smile, full of promise, that flushed her cheeks and brought a smile to her lips; and they detached from each other, returning to the set. Alfred hung back a moment so Theresa could arrive first, so it would look as though they'd returned separately. Everyone's eyes swung back to what they'd been doing previously, as actors, director and staff pretended that they hadn't been listening or watching intently, and weren't watching now, out of the corners of their eyes or staring outright when they thought they wouldn't be noticed.

Something was different about the boy, the director noted absently, as he moved to greet them. He moved differently. Something... about the way he stood... "Alfred!" He greeted. "I see you've come to your senses about your costume. Good..." Alfred turned, and smiled, and the director stopped. He didn't step back, because he was the director and if you were in his position you'd learned to reflexively hide any sign of weakness, but he didn't come any closer. "...boy."

"Yes." Alfred smiled with an easy confidence, shifting his weight onto one hip and running a hand absently through his hair, "I thought about it, and I realised you're right. We have to give people something to come back for, hm? A bit of a show." Blue eyes and brilliant smile glittered with almost predatorial amusement, and the director felt his pulse race, and his skin flush.

"Ah, yes. Th-that's right. I'm glad you see it my way." The director stammered a response, not really paying attention to what he was saying in lieu of paying _detailed_ attention to his actor's new personality. Alfred had always reminded him a bit of a kitten, his shyness and naive innocence an invitation to touch and fondle and take advantage of. That he became so flustered and uncomfortable only added to the fun. Now, though...

He finds himself thinking of a story someone had told him once, long ago in his youth, a legend about angels falling in love with human women, falling from heaven and walking on the earth; and looking at Alfred now he almost believes it. Alfred could be an angel, shining and powerful- he wouldn't look out of place with a flashing sword and halo. But there's something of the fallen in that easy smile and the twinkle in his eyes, and something in the way he stands and moves speaks of paradise lost. Alfred's standing there silently waiting for his cue, gleaming eyes and easy smile and an expanse of golden skin over muscles that seem to ripple even though he's standing still. He's radiating sexuality and confidence in the megawatt range, causing those nearby flush and fluster and fan themselves surreptitiously against the sudden heat.

The hand he'd raised to fondle the boy unconsciously drops to his side.

You don't touch angels. If you're very lucky, they touch you.

"Well." The director says, a little unsteadily. "When you're ready, then."

"Ready when you are." Alfred nods. "Oh, and director?" He adds, a touch of a tiger's purr in his voice and smile, "I'd like to talk to you after the set." He and Theresa share a glance, and his smile widens when she nods, almost imperceptibly, her own lips curling up. "I have some... _ideas_ for Amando's wardrobe that I think you just. might. like."

"A...alright, Alfred." The director agrees, a little cowed in the sheer presence of these two shining stars. Then he recalls himself, drawing himself up and recovering his authority. He's the director, he has an image to maintain. He nods, once, saying more authoritatively, "After the set. Let's get this scene done first. Quiet on set!"

"Scene 23, take one!"

"And, ACTION!"

The two actors shift, and the mood in the air changes as they visibly slip into character. Suddenly everyone can breathe again; Theresa and Alfred are gone, replaced by Catalina and Amando, in the stables of Catalina's father, where she'd sought him out after Baron Vincente's party, and found him halfway through a bottle of rich wine. Catalina, beautifully disheveled in her fine gown, and guilty and confused, torn between her undeniable attraction for Amando and her faithfulness to her dead lover, sobs into her hands as Amando, overwhelmed with guilt at his behaviour and loss of self-control under the influence of wine and Catalina, walks away, shoulders straight, shaking fists clenched at his sides.

"Amando." Catalina turns, calling after him in tones of dawning realisation, her musical voice trembling with tears, and Amando stops, turning his head a little, but not turning around, "...Why is it when you say 'sorry'...it sounds like 'goodbye'?"

* * *

><p>"Romano?" Belgium poked her head through the doorway of Romano's room, "Veneziano says you're not coming with us to Luxembourg's. Is something wrong?"<p>

Romano, who'd opened his mouth to yell at the idiot pounding at his door to _go away_, snapped it shut when he realised it who his visitor _was_. He relaxed a little, settling his chin back on the pillow in his arms to resume his sulk. "No." He muttered, pouting. "Nothing's wrong, dammit. I just don't want to go."

Belgium paused in the doorway, taking in the sight, cooing inwardly. Aw, little Romano was so _cute_ when he was pouted! His little cheeks all flushed, his little mouth all pursed, hazel eyes glowing with discontent under dark lashes, like a little cat deprived of its catnip. She could almost imagine his little kitty ears drooping, his little tail twitching sulkily. Awww~! So cute! "I made you chocolate mousse to cheer you up." She told him, entering the room to hold out the bowl, an offering to tempt a fussy kitten. "Would you like some?"

Romano glanced up interestedly, eyes on the bowl. "I'm not hungry." His pout deepened, and he looked away. She squealed inwardly- so cuuute!

"Come on, Roma~." She coaxed, kneeling down next to his bed and slowly waving the bowl in front of him, watching his eyes follow the movement. "I put extra dark chocolate in it, just for you." His eyes lit, and he unconsciously licked his lips, and she bit her lip so she wouldn't laugh. So cute! "There's a chocolate-dipped cherry tomato on top, too~."

"...Alright." He muttered, reaching out a hand from under his pillow and accepting the bowl with a show of reluctance. "I suppose I'll eat it. If you put that much effort into it."

She smiled, and stood, smoothing down her skirts and sitting down next to where he lay, sprawled on his stomach on the bed. She watched him silently for a while, waiting until he'd had a few spoonfuls and relaxed somewhat, unconsciously making appreciative noises as he ate (she could almost hear him purr). After a while she reached out, gently petting his dark hair. "Feel a little better now, Romano?"

"Mm." He admitted, lips still pursed in a frown. "A little." She hummed in acknowledgement, and continued petting him soothingly. About halfway through the dish he paused, poking the dark mousse with his spoon.

"B-Belgium?"

"Mhmm?"

"Have you ever been..." Romano paused, cheeks flushing. "A, attracted to...a..someone who doesn't exist? Ph-physically."

Belgium bit her lip to keep from squealing. Awww! Romano was growing up! His innocent little crush on Catalina must have crossed into a new level. No wonder he was hiding! Little Roma was so sensitive, something like this would be very embarrassing for him. How sweet! "You mean, like a sexual attraction to a television character?" She asked gently, unable to keep the smile off her face when he blushed deeper and burrowed into his pillow. She ruffled his hair reassuringly. "Don't worry, Roma. That's perfectly normal."

He peeked up, over his pillow. "It is?"

"Mhm." She nodded, resuming petting his hair motheringly. "There's nothing wrong with being attracted to a television character, honey." She tucked a stray lock of behind his ear. "Having fantasies about them, or dreams, or acting on urges you might have is perfectly normal. People have been doing it for centuries, Romano. Since long before you or I existed."

"...Really?"

"Mhm!" She looked around as if to make sure they were alone, and leaned in close to confide with a mischievous sparkle in her eye. "Hungary has done lots of research on the subject. She told us all about it on one of our girls' night out! So don't worry." She patted his head. "What you're feeling is perfectly normal."

"W-who said I was feeling anything?" Romano clutched his pillow tight. "It, it isn't me, dammit! I, I was asking for...someone else."

"Oh. I see." Belgium nodded understandingly, lips twitching. So cute! "Well, you can tell them they don't have anything to worry about."

"Ok." He nodded, releasing his pillow to grasp his mousse again.

"Now, I should get going, brother is waiting." She kissed his forehead (causing his face to flame red, which was _adorable_) and stood, smoothing her skirts. "Are you sure you don't want to come with us tonight, Roma?"

"..No." Romano hunched over his bowl. "I don't wanna."

Belgium nodded, unsurprised. If he was having a physical reaction to Catalina, he would probably be very embarrassed about it and wouldn't want anyone to know. It would probably be a while before he joined them for any more episodes of the show, at least until he got his body under control. She smiled understandingly. "Alright. I'll give the others your love, okay?" She ruffled his hair, grinning when he muttered an unintelligible protest about not loving stupid bastards. Romano could be so predictable.

"B-Belgium?" She paused, looking down to see him fiddling with his spoon, avoiding her gaze and pouting. Cuuute! "D-don't tell anybody, okay? I, they don't want anybody to know."

"Don't worry, Romano. 'Their' secret is safe with me." She assured him, smiling. His cheeks were still flaming, but he melted with relief, returning to his meal.

"Th-thanks, Belgium."

"Anytime. Oh, and speaking of attractions to characters," she grinned, winking, "I have to admit I'm _very_ attracted to Amando. Can you _believe_ he's played by _America? _I didn't even recognise him!" She giggled, oblivious to his sudden stillness, "He grew up to be so hot when we weren't looking! I still don't know how he managed to land a role in a Spanish soap opera, but I'm _very_ interested to find out. Ah, brother's calling. Bye, Romano! Enjoy your mousse!" With that, she hurried out the door, leaving Romano laying frozen, staring in wide-eyed shock into his bowl of mousse.

* * *

><p><em>AN: <em>_There really isn't much in canon on Belgium yet, so we'll see if she's in character when Himaruya develops her more. She's had a few appearances, but not really enough for me to get a good, solid handle on her. Aside from the fact that she thinks Romano is adorable, and likes to give him treats. _

_Soap operas are usually filmed about two weeks ahead of time, so what's being filmed above won't be released for a while_


	4. Egyptian Rivers and Desert Dreams

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_...um. Yeah. *awkward cough*_

* * *

><p>She had to be wrong, right? She couldn't be right, right? It was a joke, right? No, no, it was a mistake. It was definitely a mistake. A misunderstanding. America couldn't <em>possibly<em> be Amando. They were _nothing_ alike. They didn't even _look_ alike, aside from, y'know, the blond hair and blue eyes, and fair skin. But Amando was taller than America, and better-looking, and fitter, and he didn't wear glasses. _And _he _spoke Spanish_. America didn't speak Spanish, right? He hadn't paid much attention to the other nation, outside of Spain's occasional grudge-fueled rants, but he was pretty sure the guy was an idiot. And okay, so Amando came from the Americas, but that was just a coincidence. A, a, what's it called, a _hook_. It was a period drama. The 'New World' had been a pretty mysterious place, back then. Spain hadn't been able to shut up about it. Cities of gold, and shit. Of _course_ Amando was from the Americas. Come to think of it, they hadn't even said _where_ in the Americas he was from. It could be like, _South_ America. In fact, it probably was, since Amando didn't seem to carry a gun. _Everyone_ knew Americans carried guns _all the time_. They were practically _born_ with them.

Yeah. There was no _way_ that guy was America.

That settled, Romano set aside the rest of the mousse. It was good, but somehow he didn't feel like eating right now. He could use a drink, though. Something to settle his nerves. It'd been a really weird day. He'd discovered he was some kind of pervert (obviously he'd been spending _far_ too much time around Spain's creepy friends. He'd managed to hold out for centuries, but their perversion had finally rubbed off), and that was unsettling enough without that whole _America_ scare on top of it. Now he just had to come to terms with the fact that he was a deviant. A, a, _sexual_ deviant.

It was weird. It was weird, it was weird, it was _so weird_. At least it was only Amando. That was something, at least. He'd checked, to make sure, and yeah. The thought of any other guy even _touching_ him was..._eugh_. But for some reason Amando was different. So...so at least he wasn't a _total_ pervert. He, he was...he was a _situational_ pervert. No, no, wait, that wasn't right. He was, he was a pervert for _Amando_. Amando was the exception that proved the rule, or something like that. Amando was the only one who brought out those...weird feelings in him. Made him want...weird things.

Only, only it didn't feel weird when, when he thought of them with Amando. It hadn't felt weird at the time. It'd felt...it'd felt _natural_. Normal. Like...he didn't know. When Amando had started talking, and he started having those thoughts and _feelings _it hadn't seemed strange or weird or, anything like that, not until after, when Amando wasn't onscreen and he, he had time to look back and think on it and realise it was..._weird_.

But, but...it didn't even feel weird in retrospect, which was _weird_. Thinking back on the thought of the feel of Amando's hands on him and in him and that _voice_ in his ear it still felt, felt natural. His cheeks warmed, and his heart fluttered, and he couldn't help but smile, unconsciously, at the memory. Amando was, Amando was...special. He, he was...different. Amando was a _man_ (and normally that word would automatically make him distrustful and uncomfortable and on his guard, but when it was _Amando_ it made him feel warm, and liquid, and a little weak in the knees— in a _good_ way, and _that_ was weird, too, but it didn't _feel_ weird, which was _so weird._)

The whole thing was just...really weird. The weirdest part about it was that it didn't _feel_ weird, not with Amando, which was _so weird_. It unsettled him that he wasn't more unsettled.

It was _confusing_.

M-maybe...maybe it was...okay. It was _just_ Amando, right? No-one else. As long as it was just Amando, it was okay. Only Amando made him feel like this. Only Amando. Not the actor, or, or anyone else. It was only Amando.

So, so that was okay. It wasn't weird, if it was Amando. It wasn't weird, _because_ it was Amando. He wasn't _really_ a deviant or anything, as long as it was Amando, and _just_ Amando. So it wasn't weird, and he wasn't a pervert, or a deviant, or anything like that.

He wasn't turning into France, or any of the other pervert bastards. _That _was a relief.

Okay. It was okay. _He_ was okay.

Right? R-right. Of course. Right.

He was fine. Everything was...fine. He relaxed his hold on his pillow, pushing it aside and scooting off the bed. He opened the door, poking his head out and listening carefully to make sure no-one else was there. Yep, quiet. Good. He might have ...tentatively come to terms with his new attraction, but he still didn't want to deal with any awkward questions or even talk to anyone right now. He needed some alone time to, to adjust.

He exited the bedroom and went downstairs to the kitchen, to pour himself some wine, and maybe he'd listen to some music or watch a movie, something relaxing to distract him from the unsettling lack of being unsettled he was feeling over what he wasn't feeling as a result of how he felt.

Yeah. Wine sounded good.

A quick visit to the kitchen, and full glass in hand, he stood in front of the entertainment system in the living room, where he found an envelope with his name written on it in his brother's handwriting taped to the television screen. Frowning curiously, he pulled it off and flipped it open. Inside, there was a disc, and a note.

_Romano~, Belgium brought us a copy of today's episode that you missed for our collection! Wasn't that nice? Since we're going to watch the next episode together tomorrow, you should watch this tonight to catch up on what you missed, okay? Oh, and I almost forgot! I'm going over to Germany's later, so I won't be home for dinner. Bye~! _

He snorted, crumpling the note and tossing it aside. If Veneziano was going to Germany's, he wouldn't be home all night. He probably wouldn't even be home tomorrow. He'd be surprised if heard from the idiot at all for the next couple of days. What the hell he saw in that repressed macho fuckbastard, he'd never know. He didn't _want_ to know. He shuddered, briefly, lip curling in disgust, and then was distracted by the light shining off of the disc he still held.

His eyes narrowed as he contemplated the disc in his hand. He took a sip of wine, thinking, and raised the disc, staring at the way the mirrored surface caught the light, spun it in multicoloured patterns like the surface of a soap bubble.

_Amando_ wasn't like the potato bastard. Amando was different. He turned the disc over, staring at the edge, and took another sip of wine. Amando wasn't like _any_one. He was all the good things a man should be, but never were. He was handsome, but not arrogant. He was strong, but gentle, and... and protective. Amando was passionate, but patient, and considerate. Intelligent, but not condescending. He was open, but mysterious.

He turned the disc over again. He'd already watched the episode, he didn't really need to catch up, but...he _had_ been a little distracted, the first time through. Maybe he should watch it again, just to...make sure he hadn't missed anything.

He turned on the player and inserted the disc, his heartbeat quickening a little as he pressed 'play'. (Maybe he wanted to see Amando again, too. He could admit to that, in the secrecy of his mind.)

He settled on the couch, laying on his side, and grabbed the controller. Taking another sip of wine to settle his nerves, he turned on the TV just as the title scrolled across the screen and the opening theme began to play.

* * *

><p>The sun shone bright through the door, and gulls wheeled in the endless blue overhead, their distant cries the only sound in the still afternoon air. He turned around, blinking as his eyes accustomed himself to the lower lighting of the place he found himself. He looked around at the dirt floor underfoot, the wooden walls and stalls and hay-filled lofts. He knew this place. This was...Spain's stables. It'd been a long time since he'd last been here. Why..? Oh, that's right. He'd come here looking for...<p>

A warm pair of hands fell on his hips, and he leaned back against a strong, warm chest, heart quickening. "Amando."

"I didn't think I would see you so soon." The smooth, familiar voice sent tendrils of liquid electricity down his spine, setting his body tingling and burning with desire. Amando's strong arms slid around him, holding him gently; one hand splaying possessively over his lower abdomen, the other slowly stroking his side. His head fell back and he hummed with pleasure, melting into the touch. "I'm glad."

"Amando," he breathed, turning around in his arms, reaching up to slide his arms around his lover's neck. Amando lifted him effortlessly, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear, his breath hot against his skin, and they were pressed together, skin on skin, his back against smooth wood, supported in Amando's arms, his legs wrapped tightly around his waist, moving together, the delicious friction of Amando's heat against him making his insides coil and tighten and pulse, and Amando's protective hold turning his muscles to water, and the feel of Amando's muscles moving under his hands, _fuck yes_, and he came, slick and hot and sticky-wet between them, Amando still moving against him as he rode it out, the slick, rythmic sensation of that hard length and muscle and heated skin against his hypersensitive cock, still leaking cum, throbbing _so fucking good_ and he wanted more, more, please Amando, more.

And then they were lying in the hay, Amando's firm weight on him making him feel unbelievably secure, untouchably safe and wanted and nothing bad could _ever_ happen to him in these arms, and Amando was smiling down at him, warm and bright like the sun, blue eyes almost glowing in the low light of the stable, and he ran his hands up those strong arms and shoulders, clinging to the man above him, letting him know with his eyes and body what he wanted, _needed_, and Amando chuckled, understanding, and his legs were spread wide, and he was caressed and stroked and cherished, and Amando's fingers were moving inside him, preparing him and Amando's eyes were locked with his, intent and stormy as the sky during a thunderstorm, but he was safe, secure in these arms; and then _Amando_ was moving inside him, _oh_—

"Hey you guys!" America's head popped over the stall wall nearby, peering curiously down at where they lay in the hay. "Whatcha doin'?"

With a growl, he struggled onto his elbows, wrapping his legs tightly around Amando's waist, locking his ankles together and glaring over Amando's shoulder at the intruder. "What the fuck are you doing here? Go _away!_"

"Just passing by." America leaned nonchalantly on the wall separating them, and held out the hamburger he held in his hand. "Want a bite of my hamburger?" He offered.

_Ugh_. He couldn't _believe_ this. Couldn't the stupid bastard see they were _busy?_ He flopped back against the hay in exasperation, slapping a hand to his forehead. _"_Go _away,_ bastard. You don't _belong_ here!"

"Okay," America shrugged unconcernedly, taking a bite of his burger, and waved as he wandered off, warning casually, "but you don't know what you're missing."

"Ugh. Can you _believe_ that idiot?" He growled, settling his hands on Amando's shoulders. And then he woke up.

Still half-asleep, Romano growled, irritated, frustrated, and deeply unsatisfied as he fumbled on the floor for his pants. Pulling his cell from the pocket, he dialed quickly, snarling as soon as it picked up, "Listen, asshole. I don't know what the fuck you thought you were doing, but stay the _fuck_ out of my dreams!"

He hung up, as angrily as you could on a phone you couldn't slam, and fell back asleep, the phone dropping from his hand to the floor once more.

* * *

><p>"Alfred," Theresa asked carefully, quirking an amused eyebrow at the phone in her hand, "do you have any angry ex-boyfriends I should know about?"<p>

"No," came the preoccupied answer from behind the changing screen of their shared dressing room (space being in low supply while they were filming on location), "why?"

"Are you sure? I know you _said_ you've never really had a relationship, but maybe there was someone you forgot? Someone...Italian? Who might be pissed?"

"Um," Alfred rustled behind the screen, "the last Italian I dated was the daughter of a business partner at an official function, and she got pissed at me 'cause I didn't dress to match her gown." He paused, and there was the sound of a zipper. "I didn't know I was supposed to. But that was, y'know, work. We weren't actually in love or anything."

Theresa blinked, reflecting that she really should find out what Alfred did for a living before he started acting. Everytime she'd thought she'd figured it out, he came out with some new snippet of information that threw her previous theory out the window. But for now, they should focus on the matter at hand. "Are you _sure._ Because an unexpected ex turning up when we're not expecting them could _ruin_ our plans, Alfred."

"I think I'd remember if I'd ever been in love." Alfred answered, and she could _hear_ his insulted pout. "Besides, when_ I_ fall in love it's going to be _forever_."

And that was another thing she was going to have to watch out for, Theresa reminded herself. Alfred was a _hopeless_ romantic with a hero complex. All it would take would be some 'damsel in distress' swanning along pretending to need saving, and he'd be trapped and their plans would be ruined. Then the bitch or bastard would show their true colours, and break his heart and _ruin_ his career, and she couldn't let _that_ happen. She liked Alfred, for one— he was fast becoming her best friend— and _already_ the station was being swamped with calls and emails requesting more of 'Amando' (which was why they were back on location, filming extra scenes to retrofit into episodes already filmed), and that meant the series would become more popular, which meant _she_ would become more popular, and that would open up opportunities for her and Alfred both. Syndication. Movie deals. International stardom! She wasn't about to let him throw that all away on one of the vapid, soulless tramps that were all you met in this line of work. Alfred deserved someone special. Someone romantic, but with a good head on their shoulders, too; because Alfred needed looking after.

"You're a virgin, right, Alfred?" She asked absently, scrolling through his address book. She didn't recognise the caller's number anywhere in here. Probably a secret admirer, then. God knows she knew how that went. Sounded like they were in denial about it, though. Cute.

"Of course!" Alfred admitted easily, and there was the sound of ripping cloth.

"Good." Theresa said, noting the area code. It was probably nothing, but you never knew. "That makes things easier."

"Makes what easier?" Alfred poked his head around the edge of the screen.

"Oh, nothing." She dismissed, setting the phone down on the vanity. "You didn't tell me you spoke Italian."

"It didn't come up." Alfred stepped out from behind the screen, poking at a hole in his shirt, underneath the collar. "Is this good enough, you think?"

She glanced at his reflection in the mirror, and reached for her makeup kit. "Rip a little more across the top, so it drapes down across your shoulder."

"'Kay." He carefully tore the garment across the top of his right shoulder. "Why, do you speak Italian, too?"

"I was a model before I was an actress." Theresa nonchalantly swept her hair up into a ponytail, so it would be out of the way. "Lived in Milan, traveled the world. I speak Italian, French and a little English." She pulled a brush through her hair in preparation for styling it. "What's your excuse?"

"Huh?" Alfred frowned in puzzlement, wiggling his shoulder to settle the hole in his shirt in place. "Excuse for what?"

"You speak Spanish, English, I heard you speak French to the maitre'd the other night, don't think I didn't notice that, honey; and now, apparently you speak Italian." She gestured to the phone near her elbow, and reached for her blusher. "How many languages do you _speak?"_

"A few." America admitted, tucking the bottom of the shirt into his leather trousers. "I travel alot. Plus, the US has a lot of immigration."

"Alfred." Theresa lowered her brush, leveling a serious look at him in the mirror. "Are you a spy? You can tell me."

He glanced up and met her gaze in the mirror, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Are you serious?"

She raised an eyebrow, and crossed her arms. He laughed, coming to stand behind her and reaching for the styling gel. "Nope, not a spy."

"If I find out later on that you're a spy, and you didn't tell me, I'm going to be _very _upset." She warned, reaching for her blusher again.

"I'm not a spy." He grinned, carefully styling his hair to look attractively wind-tousled and touchable. "I think I'd know."

"Mhm." Mollified, she glanced down at the phone at her elbow, remembering that she still hadn't passed on the message. "Your Italian not-ex-boyfriend wants you to stay out of his dreams, by the way." Theresa informed him, deeply amused, and tapped her blusher brush on the edge of the vanity to remove excess powder.

"Well, that should be easy enough." He nodded absently, and Theresa rolled her eyes heavenward as she swept the brush across her cheekbones, because sometimes Alfred didn't understand people at_ all_. "Wait, how did you know he was Italian?"

"He was speaking in Italian." Theresa said dryly, reaching for her eyelash curler. "The rest was all deduction."

"That's weird." He frowned in puzzlement, tamping down that errant cowlick that always gave him trouble. "I don't know any Italians that would have that number. What was his name?"

"He didn't say." Theresa hummed thoughtfully. Secret admirer, then. Probably someone he'd worked with before who'd developed an understandable interest, but hadn't acted on it due to the denial they seemed to harbour, for whatever reason. That would explain how they got the number, why they were dreaming about him, and why they were upset about it. Cute.

"Maybe it was a wrong number." Alfred tilted his head, and nodded, satisfied with his hair.

"People don't usually dial international wrong numbers." Theresa said doubtfully.

"Y'never know." Alfred shrugged, dismissing it, and leaned over her shoulder, peeking into her makeup bag. "Can I borrow your foundation? I left mine in the—" She reached under the table, coming up with his makeup bag. "Oh, thanks!" He grinned, grabbing it and kissing her cheek. "You rock, Theresa."

"I know." She answered smugly, batting him away. "Don't smudge my makeup. And make sure you put extra on your freckles, too."

"I know, I know." Alfred sighed. His freckles had come out in the sun over the last couple weeks of filming, so for the shots that were going to be inserted into earlier episodes he needed to cover them up, so it wouldn't be too obvious that they'd been filmed later; which meant makeup, which was a _pain_. He didn't know how Theresa could stand it all the time, it smelled and felt _weird_ and unnatural.

"You missed the bridge of your nose." Theresa pointed out helpfully, enjoying the hell out of his disgruntled pout.

"I haven't even gotten there yet." He pouted harder, swiping at his nose.

"Just trying to help." She smirked, pulling her hair out of its ponytail and dragging the brush through her curls.

"If it wouldn't set us back like, an hour, I'd swipe you with this junk." He threatened, waving the foundation-covered makeup pad at her.

"I'm a professional, Alfred. It never takes me more than 15 minutes to prep for a shoot." She corrected primly, pinning her hair up.

"Yeah, well it wouldn't have taken me so long if I hadn't had to modify my wardrobe." He tugged at the hole in his shirt with his free hand.

"That was a good idea, though. Where did you come up with it?"

"There's this character in an old show where I come from who's known for always ripping his shirt in combat." He explained, dabbing the last of his freckles from apparent existence. "I just took the idea and ran with it."

"I like it." Theresa nodded approvingly. "By the way, your little 'secret' is out."

His eyebrows rose in surprise. "Already?"

"Mhm. Some of the girls came by my dressing room after our little performance, and 'pried' it out of me." Theresa tilted her head this way and that, checking her hair, and reached for her lipstick, smiling in satisfaction. "I swore them to secrecy, so everyone should know by now."

"Damn." Alfred shook his head admiringly. "I didn't think that'd work."

Theresa glanced sidelong at him, and focused on applying her lipstick for a few moments. Then she carefully capped it and put it away. "I want 'Alfred' to take Gabriela Covas out this Friday."

Alfred stilled, then resumed applying his foundation, hiding the last of his freckles, face carefully blank. He capped the foundation and dropped it in his bag, and asked lowly, "Do I really have to do this? It feels...wrong."

"It's not wrong, Alfred. It's necessary." Theresa zipped her bag, putting it aside, and stood, examining the finished product in the mirror. Catalina looked _fantastic_. "You're not even going to do anything. People are just going to think you have. No-one's going to get hurt."

"Yeah, I know." Alfred sighed, putting his things away. "I just...don't like it. It feels like lying. And what if it doesn't _work?"_

"It'll work." Theresa stated surely. "If there's one thing I know, it's people. It'll work. Just think of it as...putting on a show. People want a show. They'll believe what they want to believe. All you have to do is give them something to believe _in_."

"I know, I know." Alfred nodded, exhaling through his nose. "I don't like it. But I'll do it."

"Start drawing her in today." Theresa said, walking to the door. Alfred followed. "You know what to do."

"Yeah." He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and slipped into character. He leaned close, reaching around her to take the doorknob and opened the door, resting his other hand on her lower back, and smiled, ushering her through. "After you, Tessa love."

On their way to the set, they passed a group of visitors, family and friends of some of their sponsors or the producers, as well as some potential sponsors who'd come to watch the filming. As they walked past, Alfred glanced sidelong, making eye contact with one of the women. His glance was brief, but heated under lowered lashes, and the visible corner of his mouth quirked up wickedly, and her heart skipped a beat. Then he was gone, and she went up on tiptoes, leaning forward to crane her head after him.

"Don't even think about it, Gabriela." One of the other women warned her, with eager confidentiality. "He's not the commitment type. Haven't you heard the story?"

"Oooh, what story?" One of the other women asked, interest piqued. The first woman launched into the tale, which she explained to the group she had learned from one of the makeup artists, who had learned it from one of the costumers, who'd learned it from one of the stagehands. Gabriela wasn't listening, too busy staring thoughtfully after the departing actor. Not the committment type, hm? Maybe she could change his mind.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I...am totally forgetting something. It'll come to me later. When Theresa's done running off with the plot. Y'know, half of this chapter and all of the last were written from Belgium or Theresa's point of view. Which may be biased or, you know, coloured by their perception of things (for instance, Belgium seems not to realise that Romano hit puberty centuries ago). It's...interesting. I'm not sure how it'll effect the story, but it's fun writing from their perspectives. It's kind of an adventure. I hope it's not confusing, though. <em>

_Poor Romano. All that denial's not going to save you, buddy. *sigh* At least he'll have a few peaceful weeks, maybe months, before Valentine throws him for another loop. (Or will it be Alfred, first? We'll see.)_


	5. He's Going to Tell

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

_Took a week or so off from writing (not entirely intentionally, but its been interesting anyway) and glad to be back at it! I realised that now I have about 6 steady WIPs and if I work hard enough to update once a week then it'll still be 6 weeks between updates for each story, which is a bit lousy, I must say. Though I suppose I can't count 'Thaw, because that's my 'writer's block' fic and I don't have writer's block to combat (knock on wood), or 'Misconceptions' because that is my 'updates once in a blue moon because I have unrealistic expectations for it' fic (XD) but that still leaves me with 4. So, um...I don't actually know where I was going with that, if anywhere. _

_Anyway, here you go! _

* * *

><p>His cell phone was ringing (again). He ignored it (again), choosing instead to throw an arm over his face and hope that the damn noise would just go away and whoever kept calling would just <em>take a hint<em> and _go away_ so he could continue sleeping.

Finally, the ringing stopped, and peace reigned once more. He was given no time to enjoy the blessed silence, however; because just as he was dozing off again the house phone rang. He groaned, throwing both arms over his face this time in defense against the grating ringing. After six or seven rings the answering machine picked up.

The greeting echoed through the house along with his brother's voice (Veneziano always had the damned thing turned up as loud as it would go, so that on the off-chance that Germany might possibly call he would be able to hear it no matter where he was in the house).

"Hello~~, this is Veneziano and Romano Italy's house! We're not in, or Romano's not answering the phone, so leave a message! If you're a pretty girl, we'll call you right back! If you're Germany—" (here his own voice cut in) "Don't call this house, you macho potato asshole! Leave my brother alone! I'll kill—" (here there was scuffling in the background, and several grunts and curses as a struggle for the machine ensued) "Don't say that, Romano~! Sure, Germany's a little scary, but he's not a bad—" "Don't defend that bastard! He—" "Ve, ve, ve, but Roman—" _*Beeeeeeep*_

His cell started ringing again just as the beep ended.

"Hey, Romano~! Are you there?" Veneziano's voice came over the machine. "I'm calling you on your cell, too, so pick up, okay? I won't be home today—" (Romano snorted. Figured.) "so I wanted to make sure you're going to watch _Forever is Not Long Enough_ again today! It's going to start in half an hour, so make sure you watch it! Are you there? Are you there? Romano? Romano? Romano? Ro~Ma~No~? RomanoRomanoRomano—"

With a growl, he scooped his cell off the floor. "_VENEZIANO."_

"Romano, you're there!" Veneziano exclaimed happily on the other end of the line. "You sound like you were sleeping. Were you taking an early siesta?"

"What?" Romano rubbed his face, and looked around a little groggily. Siesta? What time was it? Crap, it was after noon! How long had he— oh right, he'd watched the premiere episode on repeat last night, eight— or was it nine?— times...Amando—

"—mano? Are you listening, ve~?" His brother's voice cut through his drowsy mental wandering.

"Hm? What is it, Veneziano?" He asked, rubbing sandy eyes again. Argh. He needed a drink. Water, lots of water. He peeled himself from the couch and staggered towards the kitchen, kicking aside the clothes that lay on the floor on his way.

"Well, I left you a message about it, but I'm not going to make it back today. Germany and I are going out to eat tonight, at that new restaurant that opened in Berlin, I told you about it last week, do you remember? It serves fusion cuisine? Prussia says it's French-Arabic, or was it Thai-Chinese? Or maybe it was Spanish-French. Well, either way, it sounds exciting! So we're going to go tonight and try it out, and if it's good maybe I can try to make you some when we get back! And if we like it, maybe we can start a restaraunt in Italy, but I don't think that would go over very well, do you? Well, maybe Spanish-French, but if it's something else probably not. It sounds interesting, but not something I would want to eat every day! But maybe it's good. Prussia says it's good, but I don't like beer or wurst very much, and Rollmops aren't very tasty either. And he eats a lot of French fries, too, did you know? He eats them with ketchup and mayonnaise, and I caught Germany eating them a few times too, and I'm starting to worry. Sometimes he mixes the ketchup and the mayonnaise together, and calls it _rot-weiß, _or at least I think that's what he calls it, ve~. He gets it all over his shirts, and Germany complains because he has to do twice as much laundry now! Prussia said if Germany's going to complain so much then he's going to take over the laundry, 'cause Prussia says he can do it better anyway, 'cause Germany always forgets the softener and Germany says he prefers starch, 'cause it makes the clothes look so nice and crisp and neat, and Prussia says that's fine for shirts but not for underwear, and honestly I agree, because my socks are always very stiff when Germany washes them, and when he makes me wear underwear it chafes, it's very uncomfortable, Romano! So I think he should let Prussia do the laundry. But Austria says when Prussia does the laundry his underwear disappears, but Prussia says that's not his fault, because—"

"Is there a point to this, idiot?" Romano asked finally, lowering his glass. Bleah, he may have drank _too_ much. He felt a little sick now.

"Oh! Well, I wanted to make sure you're going to watch _Forever is Not Long Enough_ again today, because it's going to start in half an hour; or wait, it's twenty minutes now."

"What!" Romano dropped his glass in the sink and scrambled for the living room. "Why didn't you call me earlier, idiot!"

"Ve, ve, ve, I'm sorry, Romano! It's just that I didn't remember we were going to watch it together until a little while ago, and I called you right away as soon as I remembered but you didn't pick up the phone and—"

Romano ended the call, focused on getting ready to see Amando. Shit! There was so much to do! He grabbed his dirty clothes off the floor, tearing down the hall to throw them into the laundry, keenly aware that he was sticky and dirty and badly in need of a shower. Shit, he'd have to be fast. Shit! He needed to clean the couch! Well, it was leather, he could clean it pretty fast. After the shower. No, fuck, _before_ the shower or he'd just get dirty again. He dashed back down the hall to the bathroom, grabbing the supplies he'd need to clean the couch, and ran to the living room, skidding to a stop in front of the soiled article of furniture. He scrubbed quickly, drying it off as soon as it was clean and hastily rubbing it with a little conditioner (leather couches were _expensive, _okay?) to make sure it didn't dry out. That done, he kicked the cleaning supplies under the couch and dashed back down the hall to the bathroom, hopping in to take the quickest shower of his life. Scrub, rinse, condition, rinse, exit. Shave? No, he was fine. He spent a few precious minutes on his hair, styling it with a special cream he mixed himself, that made it especially sleek and glossy, even in low lighting. Cologne? Did he need cologne? Better safe than sorry. Which one? Amando was an outdoors-y, earthy kind of guy, spent a lot of time in the stables, surrounded by ...leather, wood, hmmm...'Knize Ten', then. That would compliment the rosemary scent of his hair cream, too. Okay. His hair looked good, he smelled good, and he — shit! He was running out of time!

He darted out of the bathroom, and threw out a hand to catch himself on the door. Wait! Clothes! He couldn't watch the show naked! What would Amando think? He had to get dressed! He spun on his heel and tore up the stairs to his room, knowing exactly what he wanted to wear. He had a light saffron shirt in raw silk that would match Amando's hair, and a nice pair of designer jeans in dark blue that would complement the lowlights in his eyes. Nicely casual, didn't look like he was trying too hard. He pulled them from the closet, dropping the hangers in his haste, and struggled into them, pulling the shirt on and hopping across the room to his accessories as he tugged on the pants. Watch! He needed a watch. Gold watch, blue face, brown leather band, that worked. Good. Okay! Shit! Shoes! He launched himself back into the closet, pulling on a suitable pair and and launched back out again, sliding down the banister and skidding into the living room with two minutes to spare. _Yes!_ He was _good_.

He threw himself on the couch and snatched up the remote, turning the TV on just as his cell began to ring. He grabbed it off the coffeetable with his other hand, snarling, "_What."_

"...Roma?" Belgium sounded concerned. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

Embarrassed, he slapped a hand over his face, guilt welling up. _Dammit_, he hadn't meant to yell at Belgium. He should have checked the caller ID. "...No, I'm fine. I...I thought you were Veneziano."

"Oh, I see." She laughed. "I was just calling to ask you..." she lowered her voice, "I'll be recording all the episodes of _Forever is Not Long Enough_, so I was wanted to know if you wanted copies? I can bring them by every Friday for you, would you like that?"

"Y, yes please. That...that would be nice." Romano stuttered in embarrassment, and flushed a little guiltily, for different reasons this time. Not that he had any _reason_ to be guilty _or_ embarrassed, it was perfectly natural. Belgium said so!

"Okay," Belgium said cheerfully, adding kindly (understanding the reason for his stutter from years of experience), "and don't be embarrassed, okay Romano? It's perfectly natural!"

He mumbled something unintelligible in reply, blushing deeper. It was bad enough _anyone_ knew, but if someone had to he was glad it was Belgium. "Y-you didn't tell anyone, did you?" He asked, although he knew she knew how to keep a secret (except when she was tipsy, but that was rare. Belgium could hold her liquor surprisingly well for such a petite woman).

"Nope. And nobody knows I'll be making copies for you, okay? Now I have to go; the show is starting, and everyone will be wondering where I went! I'll see you later this week, Roma~!"

"_Ciao, bella._" He murmured, setting the phone on the couch beside him as the opening to _Forever is Not Long Enough_ began to play.

* * *

><p>"Holy shit." Prussia's eyebrows went up as the introduction ended and the opening sequence began. "They changed the opening <em>already?<em>"

"It seems so." France nodded, watching the new cutscenes being played out on the screen under the theme music. "How unusual."

"I wonder why—" Spain scowled, and he pointed accusingly at the television. "America! He made them change it to add Amando!"

Indeed, it seemed likely. The new opening sequence included several appearances by the newest 'background character', Amando, the horse trainer from the Americas. They found themselves being drawn into the action despite themselves, as Amando fought off a group of bandits, and Catalina danced with the powerful but ruthless Juan de la Barca, her eyes burning with fury; then Amando rescued Catalina from a blazing fire, then Catalina turning, hair flowing in the wind, looking alarmed and surprised, chest heaving; Amando leaping off a high cliff into the oceans, scene after rapid, drama-packed scene.

"Why is his shirt ripped in all these scenes?" Prussia wondered, reaching for the popcorn.

"I'm not complaining." Belgium grinned, eyes sparkling. "Oooh!" She leaned forward in delight when a brief scene of Amando, shirtless as he washed a horse in the courtyard, afternoon sun gleaming on tanned skin and smoothly rippling muscles, accented by rivulets of sudsy water sparkling in the sun.

"You can't find him attractive, Belgium!" Spain objected, scowling afresh. "He's far too young for you!"

"Oooooh." Prussia murmured, the clang of Hungary's frying pan echoing through his memory. He knew a 'frying pan' comment when he heard one. France slapped the back of his friend's head at the same time, pushing Spain down and leaning heavily on his back to smile charmingly at Belgium.

"Ignore this idiot, _ma belle_. He is simply jealous, I assure you. You are the very _picture_ of youth and beauty, darling Belgium~"

Belgium spared him a distracted smile, not really having been listening anyway, her attention still fixed on the screen. "Oooh!" She exclaimed delightedly, hands flying to her mouth as the next scene lingered on Amando holding a flushed and dishevelled Catalina in a passionate embrace, kissing her neck and caressing her hair and the curve of her breast. France's eyes widened, and so did his smile, and he squirmed in delight.

"What are you so happy about, France?" Prussia looked at him oddly, as Spain struggled out from under France, looking ruffled and sulky.

"I'm so proud! He learned something from me after all!" France wriggled joyously, eyes sparkling, and threw his arms around Spain, kissing his cheek and giggling madly.

"_Ooh_." Prussia winced in sympathy as Catalina slapped Amando forcefully, sending his head snapping to the side and improving Spain's mood considerably.

"Do it again, do it again!" He crowed, bouncing in his seat as the scene changed again to show Catalina rushing out into the night, carrying a blazing torch as she searched urgently for something, Amando galloping to the rescue of a strange woman on a runaway horse, "Well, he _is_ good with horses." Spain admitted grudgingly, and the scene ended on Catalina in a chapel, radiantly beautiful in a wedding dress as she stared defiantly into the (obscured from the camera) face of her groom, in what was obviously a forced wedding.

"Well, this looks like a fun season." France leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs, his entire _posture_ a pleased, anticipatory smirk.

"Doesn't it?" Belgium agreed eagerly, as Spain grumbled a little under his breath, reaching over to swipe France's glass of wine. Prussia leaned back against France's legs to steal Spain's bowl of popcorn, wondering, "Seriously, why is his shirt ripped or off in every clip?"

"Perhaps they're all scenes from the same episode." Belgium offered in explanation.

"That would be one hell of an episode."

* * *

><p>"Romanoo~, are you in? I have something for you~!" Belgium sang as she entered Romano and his brother's house (Belgium was always welcome at the Italy's, so she never had to knock— well, neither did anyone else, but Belgium wasn't <em>expected<em> to, unlike the others, who never knocked because they were uncouth bastards who barged into people's houses whenever they pleased without so much as a by-your-leave). She set the bags she carried on the floor and pulled off her jacket, hanging it up before she continued. "I would have called before I came over, but I forgot my phone at Lux's. Can I use yours to call him and ask him to drop it off for me?" She scooped up her bags again, looking around. The house was unusually silent. "Romano? Are you home?" She walked through the halls, glancing quickly into the rooms as she passed. Finding nobody there, she stopped in the kitchen, deposited her bags on the table and pulled an apron from one of the drawers, deciding to make dinner while she was here so that she and Romano could eat together when he returned. Tying the apron around her waist, she went to the window, throwing it open to let in some of the warm, early spring air. The lemon tree blooming in the yard smelled so good— oh! There was Romano! She grinned at the sight of her little Italy working in the garden, dirt smudged on his nose and cheek as he knelt in the earth, uprooting pesky weeds. Silently, she slid the window open and leaned on the sill, enjoying the opportunity to watch him work in peace for a while before he realised she was there and got all flustered and sputtery (which was cute, too, but watching him relaxed and unguarded in his element was a rare treat that she wanted to relish).

There was a warm breeze, too, which carried his voice to her as he argued with the weeds. "I suppose you thought I wouldn't notice you there, bastard," he said, pouncing on a weed hiding behind a young eggplant. "there's no escaping me, haha! There!" Having succeeded wresting the tenacious invader from his soil, he huffed victoriously, throwing it into the wheelbarrow along with the other weeds he'd uprooted. "You can burn with the others, bastard! Ah! What's this?" He dug through the broad leaves of a nearby kale, careful not to damage the vegetable in his search for whatever he thought he'd seen, frowning in concentration. "What's— oh, it's just you." Carefully, he reached in to grab something off the stalk, cupping it in his hand. He withdrew it and lifted it up, opening his hand to purse his lips sternly at the frog that sat in his palm. "I thought you were a caterpillar, idiot. You need to be more careful next time. Have you been eating all the caterpillars and snails and shit, bastard?" The little frog shifted to face him, and ribbited. He nodded, once. "Then you can stay." He set it gently back down on the kale, adding, "But watch out for cats, got it? You won't do any good if you're eaten."

Belgium smiled as South Italy continued tending his garden, talking to the plants and creatures he found there, and energetically pouncing and tackling weeds and the rare pest. Romano was in a very good mood today, she mused. Actually, he'd been in an unusually good mood for a while. For the last month or two, it seemed. Since...her smile grew. Of course! His mood had lightened around the second week of this season of _Forever is Not Long Enough_, right? About a week or so after he'd confided in her about his deepened attraction to 'Catalina'. Aw, it must be because little Romano was in love! That...that was _adorable!_

She left the window and her Roma-watching lest her little gleeful bouncing and squeeing, knuckles pressed to her lips in an attempt to...she wasn't sure, hold back the excitement?— catch his attention and disturb his peaceful gardening time. This was _wonderful!_ She giggled, glancing at the bags sitting on the table still. The present she'd gotten him was all the more appropriate, now, too! Yay! She bounced a little more, and took a deep breath to calm herself, going to the pantry to retrieve ingredients for dinner. Romano was growing up! She was so happy! This was like a little milestone in his growing-up process~! She couldn't wait to tell the other girls.

Oh, wait, no, she'd promised Romano not to tell. She pouted a little about that, but sooned cheered. Well, that was okay. It could be their little secret, that was kind of nice, too. She'd have liked to have shared it with the girls, and maybe big brother and Spain and Luxembourg, and France, too, could always be counted on to share her glee about things like this, but Romano trusted her, so she wouldn't say anything. Maybe he would relax a little in time, and _then_ it wouldn't be a secret anymore, but for now she could rejoice in secret and be happy with Romano.

She paused, placing a finger against her lips as she considered. Perch braised in red wine sounded good, and she'd gotten some particularly plump sweet shrimp in the market today, too, intending to have them for dinner with Netherlands; but her brother was perfectly capable of finding his own dinner. She set about preparing everything, turning on the oven and pulling the saucepans from their hooks, and wondered briefly if she should have Romano bring her in anything from the garden. Most of the vegetables weren't ripe yet, but perhaps some of the herbs? She checked her bags and the 'fridge, and found everything she needed there.

Her mind wandered as she worked, the actions almost automatic from long practice. What was it about Catalina that drew Romano to her? She wondered if he could be coaxed into telling her what he liked about his crush— no, _love interest_. Her smile widened, and she slit the last shrimp with a little flourish. Obviously he was attracted to her, and that was understandable; Catalina was quite pretty, as women went. Vivacious and beautiful and spirited and _interesting_. Belgium quite liked her, herself. She could even admit to a slight crush, perhaps, but of course now that Romano was emotionally invested she'd quite willingly abandon that. Romano didn't have to worry about competition from her! Besides, she always had Amando. Who knew America had grown to be such a handsome man? She grinned again, squeezing a fresh lemon into the marinade, and made a mental note to bring copies of last season and what she had so far of this season's episodes to the next girls' night out. It was time to get the other girls into the series! She needed more girls to gossip over the story with, not to mention America's surprising development. Pedro had been quite handsome, and Francisco was hot and charming in a cavalier sort of way— until he'd turned out to be a cheating _cad_, that was; but Amando was _much_ more intriguing, and she really couldn't talk about it with the boys; they got so _threatened_ about things like that. It was silly, really.

Hm, Romano had liked Catalina from the beginning of the series, hadn't he? She wondered if he liked the actress, too, or just the character. She'd looked up the actress, Theresa Álvarez, early in the first season. She seemed to be a sweet, charming young woman, from the interviews and articles she'd found. Playful and levelheaded; not quite the fiery bombshell that was Catalina, but that just went to show how talented she was. A good first love for Romano, she decided.

She uncorked the wine, pouring it liberally over the fish, pursing her lips in thought. Hmm...when was her next meeting with America? Did she have anything scheduled before the next world meeting? She didn't think so, but she'd have to check. Perhaps she could ask him to introduce (herself and Romano) to Miss Álvarez. That might be a nice surprise for Romano! Maybe they could even visit the set! But would America agree? She considered, recalling everything she knew about him. Most likely he would. He'd always been a nice boy, full of energy and enthusiasm. Sweet, but a little naive, too. Oh, but he was a man now, wasn't he? Growing into one, anyway. Just like little Romano. Ahh, they grew up so fast! She smiled nostogically, remembering when they both were chubby-cheeked little babies, not so very long ago at all. Only a couple of centuries, wasn't it? It seemed like only yesterday she was wiping dirt from Romano's face after he'd been playing out in Spain's gardens, and sending him to wash up for dinner. And now he was taking his first steps into adulthood, and becoming a man. It was wonderful!

"I thought you weren't coming back for— B-_Belgium?" _She looked over her shoulder to see the subject of her thoughts standing in the doorway, looking surprised (and already blushing and flustered). "Wh, wh..."

"Hello, Roma!" She smiled in welcome, lips twitching a little as she wiped her hands on her apron and picked up a towel, crossing the kitchen to wipe dirt from his face. His blush deepened, but he didn't fuss, busy fisting his hands in the hem of his shirt. "You've gotten so tall," she exulted, feeling proud of his growth as she scrubbed the dirt from his nose and cheek and chin now, too, "and so handsome, too! Well, you were always handsome," she winked, although he looked about ready to combust as it was, "but you're even _more_ handsome now somehow. Is it because you're in love, hm?"

"Ch-, buh, wh-, it-," Romano sputtered incoherently, making her giggle.

"Dinner will be ready soon, Romano. Why don't you go and wash up, hm?" She patted his cheek and handed him the towel, gently pushing him out of the kitchen towards the bathroom down the hall. Belgium grinned as she turned back to her dinner preparations. He may be growing up, but he'd always be her adorable little Romano.

He returned a little while later, scrubbed clean and changed for dinner, and she threw a smile at him over her shoulder. "Would set the table, please, Romano? You can set my bags over there." He muttered his compliance, and went to do as she bid, setting her bags by the window and pulling the tableware from cupboards and drawers, setting two places at the table.

"Are you home alone again today, Romano?" Beligum asked, frowning briefly at the settings.

"Yeah," he acknowedged, unperturbed, "Veneziano went back to the potato bastard's this morning."

Belgium watched him out of the corner of her eye, a little surprised at his lack of ...well, complaint. Usually the younger Italy's tendency to spend so much time with Germany brought anger and frustration and distressed Romano, but here he was, setting the silverware out relatively calmly. He was wearing his customary little frown, true, but that was habit more than anything else. His mind seemed to be somewhere else entirely, instead of on his little brother's relationship with his hated 'enemy'. Interesting. Was it because he was thinking of something else, then? Or..._someone_ else? "Did you see today's episode of _Forever_ _is Not Long Enough?_" She asked nonchalantly, settling the fish in a serving dish. She nodded in satisfaction when he blushed, fiddling with one of the forks.

"Yes," Romano admitted readily, despite his blush. "it was pretty good."

"Wasn't it?" She agreed a little excitedly. "I can't believe the Baron would do something like that! And _Juan!_ Taking advantage of Gaspar's disappearance to try and take over the manor and force Catalina to marry him! It's so cruel! I knew he wasn't very nice, but I didn't think he was so heartless!"

"I know, right?" Romano agreed, indignant, and slammed a glass down on the table with more force than was strictly necessary, "and can you believe that bastard had Amado arrested on that stupid false murder charge? _Everyone_ knows Amando wouldn't do that! I can't believe he got away with it!"

"I _know!_" Belgium agreed wholeheartedly. "It's a good thing Father Parador helped him escape, don't you think? Do you think he'll be able to make it in time to save Catalina from marrying Juan?"

"Of course he will!" Romano stated emphatically. "I bet he'll run that bastard through with a sword, too, just like he deserves, haha!" He jabbed the butter knife he held as if running said bastard through himself. "And then he'll save Catalina and prove the charges are false and show everyone just what's been going on!"

"I'm sure you're right." Belgium agreed, setting the serving dishes on the table and serving them both, smiling her thanks at Romano when he pulled out her chair for her as she seated herself to eat. "I'm very glad you got over your dislike of Amando, Romano! He can be quite winning once you give him a little time, can't he?"

"..." Romano said, and blushed again, finding his own seat and bowing his head. She bowed her own, folding her hands as they said grace,

"Bless us oh Lord, and the food we are going to have, let it not to lack to anyone anywhere in the world, especially to children. Amen."

"This is really good," Romano complimented after a few bites, "where did you get it?"

"I did some shopping in Cagliari today, and the fish were so lovely I just couldn't resist!" Belgium smiled. "The shrimp are especially sweet and plump, it made my mouth water."

"Mm," He agreed, mouth full.

"There's another world meeting coming up soon," she remarked, watching him curiously, "will you be coming to this one?"

Romano frowned a little, poking at his fish. He had been forced to come to terms with the fact that America actually _did_ play Amando, but he wasn't exactly comfortable with it. He didn't want to see the bastard and be reminded of that fact, and...well, in his memory Amando and America didn't even _look_ alike, and he was a little scared of what might happen if he was wrong, and America was there being _America_ wearing Amando's face. It would just be..._weird_. He wouldn't know how to deal with it. But if he didn't see America, then it'd never come up. "I don't think so." He confessed eventually.

"I hope you do, Romano," Belgium pouted a little. "It'd be very nice to see you there. You should come to the meetings more often, it'd be good for you!"

"Veneziano goes to enough meetings for both of us." Romano said stubbornly, frown deepening. "You don't need me around when he's there."

"But you and Veneziano aren't the same, Romano," Belgium pointed out, "and you're Italy, too. It's best if you both come." He only grunted noncommitally, unconvinced, and focused on his plate. Belgium watched him for a moment, letting it go for now, but making a note to try again sometime later.

"How about the G-8 meeting, will you be going to that? There's one of those coming up soon, isn't there? France was saying something about it the other day."

Romano wrinkled his nose, and she had her answer. She sighed, pouring them both some wine. "You know, Romano, it's fine if you really don't want to go," she said gently, "but you shouldn't give up before you try, honey. You have a lot to offer, you know."

"Can we talk about something else?" He asked, not meeting her eyes.

"Alright, if you'd like." She relented, smiling kindly, "How about your garden? You said you were going to try some new vegetables this year, didn't you? How are they coming along?"

"Oh," he straightened again, nodding, "the honeydew is coming along pretty good. I have to tie the vines to the trellis again everyday, it grows so fast. It gets so big, too! I might have to give it a bigger spot next year if I like how it turns out. The rhubarb is coming up fast, too; and if the heat doesn't kill it like last time then we should be good. I had to pack ice around it for a couple of days in order to get it started, but now that it's going it seems healthy. I don't know, though," he frowned thoughtfully, "I'll have to keep an eye on it to make sure it doesn't get too hot. I have a lot of new plants used to cooler climates, and so far they're doing pretty good, but it's been pretty cool so far. I think maybe next year I'll plant some of them earlier, mid or late winter, it's closer to the temperatures they're used to."

Belgium nodded and smiled occasionally, making interested noises as he went on. She didn't garden much, herself, outside of flowers occasionally, but she knew enough to ask questions to sound as if she knew more than she did. She liked to listen to Romano and Spain talk about their gardens. They enjoyed it so much, and it was nice to see Romano be confident about something. Did Theresa Álvarez like gardening, she wondered? Did she know anything about it? Catalina didn't seem to, much, although her aunt had often been in the garden tending her flowers before she'd died of consumption, the poor woman. But it was probably hard to develop an interest in gardening when your life was as eventful as Catalina's, so she could understand that. Maybe she could ask America about Miss Álvarez's hobbies, see if perhaps she and Romano shared any common ground.

"...and it's no good as a compost. Too much carbon." he continued, ladeling some more fish onto his plate. "So I'll probably just burn it for ash."

"That sounds like a good idea." She agreed, feeling fairly safe in the assumption that if he said it it probably was, and he wouldn't know her mind had been wandering. "Brother's garden is doing well, too. Well," she amended, "it was, but then the rabbits got in and ate all his chilis and ...herbs." He snorted, and she giggled.  
>"I bet he was happy about that. Did he eat them?"<p>

"We may have eaten rabbit stew for a few days." She admitted, grinning. "Brother was not very happy at all, but he has plenty of other sources, so that's fine. Mostly I think he was angry because they'd eaten the ones that America's brother had given him, he was very fond of those plants."

"America has a brother?" Romano asked, brows furrowing in surprise. "Since when?"

"Yes, since...always, I think. Don't you remember? Candida." She tilted her head, thinking. "I _think_ that's his name."

"'Candida'?" Romano repeated. "That's an Italian name, but I don't remember a Candida in the 'New World'." He shook his head, wondering rhetorically, "Why did we give the bastards such girly names, anyway?"

"That's a good question, Romano." Belgium grinned teasingly. "Perhaps it was because they're so pretty? Oh, and speaking of pretty," she continued cheerfully, before he could respond, "I picked up a little present for you, too. It's in that bag over there, along with your copies of this week's episodes."

"Oh?" He glanced interestedly at the bags sitting on the counter next to the window. "What is it?"

"You'll see!" She grinned again, standing and picking up their empty plates. "You can open it after dessert. Do you want coffee with your pie?"

"Yes! And extra whipped cream on my piece, okay?"

"Yes, I know." She smiled, ruffling his hair. "Extra cream for an extra-sweet boy!" Extra cream for my fussy little kitty, she added to herself, grinning as his cheeks flamed at her comment. "In fact, you worked so hard today I think you deserve an extra piece, don't you?"

"Th-that's right!" He blustered, flustered by the attention. "I worked really hard!"

"I know you did!" She agreed, putting the dirty plates in the sink to soak and turning to the coffeemaker, tapping her chin with a finger. "I should make the coffee first, shouldn't I? Now, how does this machine work again? You press this button here, and...?"

"Uh," Romano hastily got up and interjected himself between her and the espresso machine, suddenly remembering how badly Belgium's coffee always turned out. "th, that's okay, Begium. I'll make it, okay? You don't have to worry about it."

"Are you sure?" She inquired doubtfully, going up on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder at the machine. "I don't mind doing it."

"I, I want to help." He insisted. "Really."

"Alright then," she agreed cheerfully, turning to go to the 'fridge and retrieve the cream, "you take care of the coffee, and I'll take care of the pie."

"Okay." Romano sighed in relief, pulling out the beans to grind. "Don't forget, extra whipped cream on mine. Don't forget, okay?"

"I won't, Romano, I won't~."

* * *

><p><em>I should probably tell her.<em> Romano mused, feeling guilty as he added the disks Belgium had brought to the collection. He glanced back at the present she had brought him sitting on the coffeetable: a signed, limited-edition poster of Catalina. It _was_ a very nice poster, he had to admit. And he could definitely appreciate the sensual, provocative pose and atmosphere of the piece, the camera work was excellent. Catalina _was_ _exquisitely_ beautiful, and he'd be lying or dead or both if he said he didn't find her attractive.

But...when he looked at the poster... instead of Catalina, he couldn't help but see blue eyes, and blond hair, and golden skin, and a warm, gentle smile...

But he _couldn't_ tell her, because although she would keep the secret she might think he had a crush on America, and that was _unthinkable. _And he couldn't even buy Amando posters or merchandise, 'cause if anyone saw him and found out he was interested in _Amando_, they might think he was attracted to America, and then meetings would be even more unbearable than they already were, because nobody would ever let him live it down. And someone would be _sure_ to tell _America_, because nations gossiped like nosy old women, and then _America_ might think he was attracted to him, and that would be _humiliating_. And _completely wrong._

Why did that bastard have to play Amando? Couldn't they have found someone else, dammit? It wasn't like America and Amando had anything in common. Aside from being from America, but that didn't count. _Augh._

At least he had the episodes, though. Sixty-seven of them so far, counting today's episode, all of which featured Amando to some degree. At the beginning of this season he only had a few scenes per episode, but by the end of the second week he had almost as many appearances as Catalina; and now he was an equal character with her in the show, with a complicated storyline of his own, intricately tied in with Catalina's. And he was wildly popular, too. He and Catalina were the hottest couple on television, and the fans wanted more of both of them. There was even word that they were considering extending the episode length from one hour to one-and-a-half hours. And everybody, including himself, was _dying_ to learn more of Amando's mysterious past! Why had he come to Spain? What had happened that made him keep his distance from Catalina whenever they started getting close, despite the fact that he obviously loved her? Why wouldn't he say anything about his life before he'd rescued Catalina on the beach? Why was it such a secret?

Oh, there were hints. Little things, moments where his control slipped, scenes where you thought, just for one moment, that you were _finally_ going to understand. Scenes where you got a tiny hint of what was going on behind his warm smile and charming manner. For instance..._this_ one. Romano pulled a disk out of the collection, one of his favourite episodes, and the first instance in which Amando really let down his guard and let his passion shine through.

He slid the disk into the player, turned on the TV and settled onto the couch, the barest hint of an excited grin crossing his lips. He hadn't been able to rewatch these episodes with Veneziano around, it would have aroused too many questions; but now that his brother was _finally_ gone he was free to watch all the Amando he wanted. All of Amando's best moments, all in one night! Well, maybe not _one_ night, because there were a _lot_ of good Amando moments and he wouldn't be able to fit them all in one night, but he could get in some of his _favourite_ favourite moments, and rewatch some of the episodes that he hadn't memorized yet. He couldn't _wait._

"Amando." Romano mouthed the words as they fell from Catalina's trembling lips, her face shining with tears as she turned to look after the retreating Amando, who paused, but didn't turn around, "...Why is it when you say 'sorry'...it sounds like 'goodbye'?"

Amando didn't respond, still and strong in the silence in the stable, and Catalina brushed her hair over her shoulder, taking a step towards him, eyes flickering in concern as she reached out with a hesitant hand. "Amando?"

Amando chuckled softly, and although he didn't turn around, the camera angle changed to show his face, still facing away from Catalina. His charming, easy smile was back in place, but his eyes were shadowed and full of pain which belyed the casual friendliness of his voice, "I've overstayed my welcome, don't you think? It's about time I moved on. Stop imposing on your and your father's hospitality."

"..." Catalina's eyes blazed, and her hands clenched into fists at her side. "Is that it, then?" She spat, furious. "You don't get what you want, and so you're just going to..." she cast around for the words, gesturing sharply, "ride off into the sunset? Just like that?"

"I don't belong here, Catalina." Amando said, infuriatingly gently. "This isn't where I need to be. It's time for me to go. There are things I have to do."

"'Things you have to do?'" Catalina repeated, eyes narrowing. "What about the things you do here? The promises you've made to my father? To _me?"_ She swiped angrily at a tear, her voice shaking with fury and emotion, "You said you loved me. Was that a lie? Does it mean nothing to you?" She lowered her voice, choking out, "Or was it just something you were saying to get me into your bed?"

"_No!"_ Amando denied vehemently, spinning on his heel, his own eyes blazing. He strode forward, gripping her arms tightly, and pulled her close as he said urgently, "_No._ I love you, I do. I swear it."

"Then _why are you leaving?"_ Catalina cried, angry and confused and hurt as she leaned against his chest.

"_Because I have to!"_

"_Why!"_ Catalina demanded.

"Because I—" Amando started, urgently, lowly, but then another voice rang out in the darkness.

"Catalina?" Juan's voice called through the night from somewhere in the courtyard. "Are you out here, darling?"

They both stilled, eyes growing wide as they realised what they were doing, what it would look like to an outside observer. Amando glanced towards the door, but Catalina reached up and cupped his face, turning it back to her. "You're not going anywhere." She stated.

"Catalina, you have to go." Amando gently moved her back from him, whispering, " You can't be seen with me like this, you—"

"I don't care." She declared, eyes determined. "I'm not going anywhere until you promise me you're not going anywhere."

"Catalina, be reasonable." Amando tried to reason with her, as Juan's voice called for her again, closer this time. "This isn't—"

"_Promise me."_ Catalina demanded. "Promise me on your love. You won't leave me."

"Catalina..." Amando said, at a loss. She caressed his face, her eyes searching his, and her expression softened.

"Amando," she said softly, even as Juan called out for her once more, "there's something I need to tell you. But not here. Not now. Promise me. Promise me you'll be here?" Her pleading eyes looked into his confused, hesitant ones, and when Juan called out for her, closer than ever now, he gave in, and nodded.

"On your love." She whispered, brushing her thumb across his lips, and he closed his eyes, lips parting under her touch.

"On my love." He promised, and released her, pushing her towards the door. "Now go."

Trusting Amando to keep his promise, Catalina hurried away to meet Juan de la Barca in the courtyard, and the scene faded to commercial; and as he always did, Romano cursed Juan's timing. Amando had been just about to explain why he was there! Maybe. Or it could have been a clue, or perhaps a confession or who-knew-what; but they'd never know _now_, because _Juan_ was a bastard who interrupted important scenes and imprisoned people on false murder charges. He couldn't _wait_ 'til the asshole got his comeuppance. _Amando_ would teach him what for!

He indulged in some anticipatory gloating as he imagined all the things Amando might do to bring the wrath of God down on the undeserving Juan's head. Next episode, or maybe the episode after, Amando would stop the wedding, expose de la Barca's treachery, and rescue Catalina _and_ her father's property from his evil clutches, haha! He couldn't _wait!_

* * *

><p><em>AN: So there you go. <em>_This chapter brought to you by 'Strip Polka' as sung by the Andrews Sisters, which almost inspired a oneshot of its own but I've resisted so far, ahahahaha!_

_(__Sturm and drang, my author's notes have escaped my recollection! Alas, alack-a-day! Etcetera.) _


	6. Not Quite Dirty Rotten Scoundrels

**Hetalia, the land I didn't make up. **

_Shortie chapter to tide you over._

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><p>"And how long will you be gone?" Theresa asked, frowning slightly as she sat on her co-star's bed watching him pack.<p>

"About three days? The weekend and Monday." America answered, stuffing a couple of shirts into his suitcase, and frowned thoughtfully at his closet. "I should be back by Monday night."

"You didn't tell me you were going anywhere." Theresa said, a little piqued.

America shot her a guilty, embarrassed smile. "I sorta forgot."

"You forgot you were going to France for the weekend?" Theresa repeated, disbelieving.

"Well, it's just work." He gave a one-shoulder shrug, wadding up a couple of slacks and jamming them next to the shirts. "Business stuff. It's not like I'm going there to do anything fun or exciting."

"Don't pack them like that, they'll get wrinkled." Theresa admonished, pulling his clothes from the suitcase and folding them neatly. She lifted one of the shirts, frowning at it. "You're not wearing this, are you?"

"Um, yes?" America answered, glancing back over his shoulder as he dug through a drawer for his underwear.

"No." Theresa decided, putting them aside and going to his closet. She threw open the door, rifling through his wardrobe. "This is a business meeting, you say? Your pervert uncle is one of the members, yes?"

"Yes?"

"You show up in _that_ and nobody will take you seriously." Theresa pulled out a shirt, grimaced prettily, and hung it back up. "Alfred, I think we need to go shopping."

"Why? That's what I always wear." America said absently, poking around in his drawers. "Well, not that exactly, but stuff like it."

"Alfred, honey," Theresa turned around and put her hands on her hips, tossing her hair authoritatively, "you're my co-star now, and my responsibility. If there's any chance you'll be seen in public, the way you look and how you act will affect both of us. So since how you dress is going to reflect on me, I can't let you go out dressed like..." she wrinkled her nose, "an _American_."

"What's wrong with dressing like an American?" America grinned, displaying a pair of star-spangled briefs stretched between his hands. "I was dressed like an American when we met, and you didn't seem to mind then."

She shook her head to hide the colour in her cheeks, and crossed the room again to snatch the briefs from his hand. "Alright, so it might have its own sort of ...clumsy charm, _sometimes_, but that won't get you very far in our line of work, and certainly not in _Europe_." She tucked the briefs into his suitcase anyway. "And since there's nothing suitable in your closet, then we'll have to go shopping. When does your plane leave?"

"Um," America paused, and pulled his schedule out of his back pocket, "two hours?"

"Alfred." Theresa closed her eyes, pressing her hand to her forehead. "Your plane is leaving in _two hours,_ and you _haven't packed yet?"_

"I usually don't pack until just before I leave." America shifted a little uneasily as she turned, crossing her arms and staring at him levelly. "...What?"

"Well, that explains your wardrobe." She sighed, shaking her head. "Well," She decided, grabbing her purse from the bed and zipping his suitcase shut, "there's no choice, then. I'll have to go with you."

"You will?" America asked in surprise, brightening up.

"I'm sure I have enough money with me to buy a ticket to France." Theresa said, handing him his mostly-empty suitcase. "We'll have to go shopping when we get there. When does your meeting start?"

"Tomorrow morning at nine." America took the suitcase and grabbed a briefcase from his bedside table. "You don't have to buy a ticket, I chartered a private plane. Do we have to stop at your place for your passport?"

"I always bring my passport with me." She informed him, patting her purse. "Along with any important papers I might need, makeup, and a few changes of clothes in my car. Something I learned as a model: always be prepared for unexpected trips or parties." She paused thoughtfully. "I'll have to teach you that." She waved dismissively, focusing on the task at hand. "When we get there. You ready to go, Alfred?"

"You really want to come?" America asked hopefully. "I mean, you can't come with me to the meeting, but it'd be great to have you along for the rest."

"Of course." Theresa smiled, reaching for his hand. "It's pretty obvious that I can't leave you alone. _Somebody_ needs to look out for you."

"Great." He beamed, squeezing her hand. "We're gonna have so much fun!"

"But first, shopping." Theresa said, smile widening. She paused with her hand on the doorknob. "...You really chartered a plane?"

"Yep!"

"Alfred." She said cautiously. "Are you in the mafia?"

"What? No!"

"Are you _sure?"_ Theresa narrowed her eyes. "Because if you are, I'd like to know now. "

"_No_, I'm not in the mafia." America pouted. "I'm a _hero_, remember?"

"Alright." Theresa's lips twitched, and she squeezed his hand as she opened the door. "I really didn't you could be. You have _no_ sense of style."

"Hey." He mock-protested, grinning again.

"Don't worry honey, I'll fix that." She assured him confidently, tugging him along and gesturing grandly. "We'll get you a whole new wardrobe! You're going to be beautiful, Alfred, wait and see!"

"That may be so." He acknowledged, and stopped in his tracks, catching her other hand when she turned around to see what had happened. Clasping her hands in his, he gazed intently into her eyes. "But with you beside me no-one will notice, because your beauty outshines the sun." He said seriously, voice low and intimate.

She blinked at him for a moment, and then smiled approvingly. "Oh, that's good." She admired, and he grinned. "A little more 'Amando' than 'Alfred'," she added, to keep him from getting too proud of himself, "but your delivery was _very_ good. I'm proud of you."

"Yeah," He admitted, opening the passenger door of the car for her, "I've been having trouble keeping 'Amando' and 'Alfred' separate lately."

Theresa nodded sympathetically, sliding into the passenger seat and releasing his hand. She waited until he'd shut the door and come 'round the car to sit in the driver's side before she commented. "It's because the filming schedule's been so hectic. We're all a little exhausted."

"Yeah, maybe." He nodded, starting the car up. "I don't have a problem keeping Valentíne separate, though. Just Amando and Alfred."

"Well, Valentíne's a very distinctive character." Theresa pointed out. "Alfred and Amando are more alike. That, and we don't really know much about Amando, yet. His backstory hasn't really come to light. It doesn't matter too much, though, because people will just think that 'Alfred' and Amando are very similar."

"I don't think Alfred and Amando are that much alike." America frowned thoughtfully. "I mean, on the surface, yeah, but their ideals and motivations are totally different. Alfred's a bit...darker. Amando's more of a white-knight kinda guy, a straight-shooter. I mean, he's got his dark side and his secrets, but he's not as messed up as Alfred."

"Alfred's not 'messed up'," Theresa defended, frowning a little petulantly, "he's just...troubled."

"Fucked up in the head." America stated, casting a quick sidelong glance at her as he drove.

"No he's not!" Theresa protested, crossing her arms. "He's just been through a lot of things, that's all."

"That doesn't excuse the way he treats women." America continued. "Going through one after the other, just because he can't get—"

"It's _romantic_." Theresa insisted. "Every woman hopes that she'll be the one, to get through to him and heal his heart, to teach him to _love_ again. It's a woman's romantic ideal."

"A woman's romantic ideal is an asshole?" America inquired, quirking an eyebrow at the road.

"He's _not_—" Theresa started, then narrowed her eyes when she saw his grin, realizing he was winding her up. "Ooooh!" She growled, slapping his shoulder with her purse, making a face at him when he laughed. Huffing through her nose, she settled back in her seat. "Well, if you're having trouble with Amando and Alfred, maybe we can develop 'Amando' more."

"I was thinking about that." America agreed, frowning as someone cut them off. He leaned on the horn with one hand, and rolled down the window to flip them off with the other, sticking his head out briefly to deliver some colourful speculation about the driver's parentage and personal practices in a mix of Spanish and English as Theresa sank down in the passenger seat, face in her hands to hide her embarrassment. "Anyway," he added conversationally as he rolled the window back up, "I was thinking we could be more active in production and development. Write some episodes, maybe. Direct a bit. I know acting takes up a lot of our time, but I think we could handle it, y'know?"

"Hmm." Theresa considered, pulling on her nails as she thought. "I think we could..." she said slowly, "but it'd be tough. The show's becoming more popular, so we're going to be doing more and more interviews and public appearances. We have to maintain your image as 'Alfred'. And they're still talking about extending the episode length, and if that happens we'll be working almost constantly; but if we worked together..." she nodded, decisively. "Let's think about it some more this weekend, see if we can't come up with a plan."

"Okay!" He smiled widely. "Sounds like fun!"

"Which reminds me." Theresa said absently, pulling her planner from her purse and making a note in it. "We're going to have to talk about sex scenes."

"Do we _have_ to?" He whined, cheeks flushing as he hunched over the wheel. "It's _embarrassing."_

"We can't keep avoiding it, Alfred." She admonished, putting her planner away again and shutting her purse. "The producers are getting very adamant that we add more sex to the show. There's a lot of pressure from our fans."

"I know, I know." America sighed glumly. "But can we talk about it later? When we get to the hotel. Please?"

"We can't talk about it now, anyway." Theresa reminded him, smiling in amusement. "You're supposed to be 'Alfred' when we're in public. He has a reputation to keep up."

"That's true." America remembered, brightening.

"But we _will_ talk about it when we get to the hotel."

"Boo."

* * *

><p>"Oh, Alfred, this is wonderful!" Theresa threw her arms wide in delight when she saw the hotel suite. "It's so big! Look at it!"<p>

"Glad you like it." He grinned her way, tipping the busboys who'd brought their (now plentiful, after a shopping spree) luggage up and shooing them out the door with an amused wave when they lingered in the doorway to stare admiringly at his coworker.

"I love it!" Theresa enthused, and pounced on a vase full of flowers on a table near one of the couches in the expansive main room. "Oh, look, oleander! I _love_ oleander! Oh, Alfred, look at the balcony!" She ran to the glass doors, pressing her hands against it. "_Look_ at the _view!_ It's beautiful." She sighed, leaning against the glass. "The French Riviera. It's so _romantic."_

"It's nice, huh?" Alfred agreed, gathering her luggage to put away. "Which room do you want?"

"What? Oh, um." Theresa glanced around, and pushed herself off the glass. "Put those down," she flapped a hand at him, striding purposefully towards the bags full of the clothes they'd just bought (mostly for Alfred, but she'd gotten a few things, too. How could she resist? It was _France!_ And besides, Alfred had insisted on paying. She'd thought the 'all Americans are rich' stereotype was a myth, but now she was beginning to wonder), grabbing one from the top of the pile and thrusting it at him, "and go and put this on. We'll work out the rooms later. Right now we have to get dressed."

"What? Why?" Bewildered, Alfred put down the luggage and took the bag.

"We have work to do." She tossed her her hair over her shoulder, rummaging through the bags until she found the one she was looking for. "While you were taking care of the reservations I had a look at the guestbook, and it turns out that the daughter of one of the studio executives is staying here on vacation." She stood, kicking off her heels and pulling a new pair from one of the bags, stuffing them into the one she held as she continued. "I managed to find out that she goes to the hotel bar for a cocktail every day around four-thirty; before she goes out for the evening."

"Oh." Alfred blinked. "So...we're going to say hi?"

"Not 'we.'" Theresa corrected as she changed her earrings. "_You_, Alfred, are going to sweep her off her feet, show her a _very_ good time, and," she lifted a finger, smiling predatorially, "_while_ you're at it, you're going to mention that you'd like to be more involved in the creative aspect of the show."

"Oh." Alfred puzzled over this for a moment, then his face cleared in realisation. "_Oh._" He deflated a little. "Do I _have_ to?"

"Alfred, this is a wonderful opportunity." Theresa informed him sternly. "Do you think chances like this happen every day? We have to sieze the moment."

He sighed, ruffling his hair. "Fine, okay." He nodded, resigned. She was right, anyway. "Wait, what about you? Shouldn't I let her know _we_ want to be more involved in the creative aspect?"

Theresa gave him a dry look.

"Absolutely not." She said firmly. "She'll be willing to do _anything _for you, but if you bring me into it that'll ruin everything. The last thing a woman wants to hear about during a romantic, passion-filled night with a devastatingly attractive man is another woman in his life. Talk about yourself, and her, and that's it. I'll take care of the rest." She hefted the bag in her hand and grabbed her purse from where she'd dropped it on the couch when she'd entered, slinging it over her shoulder. "I'm going to the restroom to get ready. You get dressed, and we'll head down to the bar in half an hour, alright?"

"Alright." He sighed again, slinging his own bag over his shoulder and heading for one of the bedrooms so he could change. "And here I thought this was going to be _fun."_ He muttered under his breath, pouting a little.

"Okay." Theresa murmured as they strode through the foyer a short time later, turning every head in the hotel lobby. Their low-voiced conversation was disguised behind bright smiles and sparkling glances that made it look to those watching as though they were exchanging light banter, rather than the tactical instruction that was actually taking place. "I'll point her out to you, and you move in for a 'chance encounter'. Remember, 'Alfred' doesn't know that she's the studio executive's daughter, so don't mention anything about it. Be evasive about what you do until you've been talking for a while and things are starting to get intimate. If she knows you're an actor straight away, she'll think you're just trying to curry her favour to further your career."

"Which I am." The side of his mouth pulled back in a wry smile. "I feel like a con man."

"It's just business, Alfred." Theresa explained, trying to be patient. No matter how many times they went through this, Alfred just didn't seem to get any more comfortable with it (which was a shame, because he was a _natural)._ "This is how it works. And one night of passion and romance with 'Alfred' will be more than enough to repay _any_ favours she might do you in the future."

"If you say so."

"Trust me." She laughed, smiling brightly and taking his arm as they drew close to the bar. "Now get ready, honey. It's _showtime._"

* * *

><p><em>AN: Sometimes I get to a point and my brain says 'This is the end of the chapter', whether or not I particularly planned on ending it there. Oddly enough, when that happens, I find myself unable to write the next part until said chapter has been officially closed. I'm not sure why this is. I've found it's best not to argue.<em>


	7. A Lot of Stuff That Happens

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_A spell of writer's block, but I'm trying to work through it. This is mostly a lot of stuff that happens. _

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><p>The door shut gently behind him, its muted click the only sound in the silence of the hall, and Alfred exhaled slowly, ruffling his (already ruffled) hair and draping his jacket over his arm. He needed some fresh air. Treading softly through the halls of the hotel, he slipped through the grand foyer and stood outside, breathing deeply of the pre-dawn air, which smelled mostly of sea and sand and the roses in the nearby gardens of the hotel. A soft breeze ruffled his hair and clothes, carrying away the cloying scent of perfume and cigarette smoke and cocktails that clung to his clothing from the night before, and he closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall.<p>

It hadn't been a bad night, really. The studio executive's daughter had turned out to be a charming young woman (if a little spoiled and classist, but he'd known that going in); very pretty and very stylish, and very outgoing. What was the word..._cosmopolitan_. Yes. Her French was rough and her English wasn't much better, but she'd liked it when he spoke in French, and he'd discovered early she had _thing_ for French poetry, even if she barely understood it. After cocktails they'd gone clubbing, and he'd recited Voltaire low and clear in her ear as they danced under the pulsing lights and music, and touched her just _so_, and she'd responded... _enthusastically_ despite not understanding a word. They'd quickly become the center of attention on the dance floor, under lights and cameras and screens, and that had pleased her, too.

Then they'd gone to a private party, at the beachfront villa of a friend of a friend's, where she'd introduced him to her cousin, a young woman much like herself; who didn't understand French at all but shared her cousin's preferences, and who'd discarded the young man she'd come with in favour of Alfred's company. He hadn't known what to do about that, but 'Alfred' wouldn't have even blinked, so he'd taken it in stride and worked on them both, and that seemed to be what they'd wanted, anyway.

Then there was a moonlight swim on the villa's private beach, just the three of them; the girls in their new French bikinis and him in...well, nothing, which had suited them just fine. By that time they were more than a little tipsy, and he'd mostly kept them from drowning under the guise of romance and passion. They'd asked him for Baudelaire (he gave them Chénier, since they didn't know the difference and he didn't like Baudelaire), and there'd been skin on skin and warm, alchohol-scented breath and soft seas and moonlight, and then they'd gone back to the hotel, and a few hours later they were curled up in their hotel sheets, fast asleep, deeply satisfied and not likely to wake up before noon.

Nothing had happened there, although they wouldn't remember it that way. He wasn't sure how that worked, but it did. Theresa said people believed what they wanted to, and rewrote reality inside their heads to suit themselves. He didn't know if he liked that idea, but it seemed to work, and nobody was getting hurt, and it seemed to be making everyone happy. And it was just _pretend, _after all.

Except now he was left with the uneasy feeling that he'd done something wrong, the way he always did after he'd been 'Alfred'. He'd liked the girls, but it just wasn't...it didn't feel right. He didn't know why, but it felt like...lying. But 'Alfred' always made sure the women he was with knew ahead of time that it wasn't an exclusive deal, and that there were other women, and that nothing serious would come of it; and they always said that was okay, and they actually did seemed to be okay with it (which he didn't understand, either, because they said they _loved_ 'Alfred', but how could that be true if they were okay with him being with other people? He didn't get it, but as long as he wasn't hurting anyone...). And Theresa said it was _acting_, because Alfred was a _character_, and that made sense, too. But he didn't feel uncomfortable like this after playing Amando or Valentíne, and Valentíne was no saint, either. He was a bad boy and proud of it.

Maybe that was it, then. 'Alfred' was _supposed_ to feel like this, right? Angsty and conflicted about this shit, because of his 'troubled past'. Maybe he was just resonating with the character, or something.

He sighed, pushing himself off the wall and turning to reenter the hotel. He'd feel better after he got back to himself. He glanced at his watch; two hours before the meeting, so there was no real point in taking a nap, but he had time to shower and change and get some breakfast and coffee (he'd _kill_ for a hamburger, but the chances of finding one in France were dismal).

Theresa was already seated at the table in the little dining nook when he entered the suite, breakfast laid out in front of her. She was still in her bathrobe, several large rollers in her hair, alternating between checking the paper and looking at something on her laptop and nibbling on a croissant. She glanced up when she heard the door, and waved the croissant at the seat across from her. "I've ordered us breakfast. Come and sit down."

"I wanted to take a shower first." He said, slipping off his shoes. He wrinkled his nose. "I smell like French nightlife."

"Okay." She nodded absently, staring at something on her screen. "Oh, don't bother getting dressed," she called after him as he left the room, "I picked out the clothes you should wear to your meeting and sent them out to be pressed. They should be back in half an hour."

"Okay~." He called back. "Did you do anything interesting while I was gone?"

"Not really. Hit the gym, went swimming at the pool." She called back. "Got a call from the producer. I guess they decided not to extend the length of the episodes."

"Yeah?" He turned on the shower, and she raised her voice to be heard over the water.

"Uh-huh! Now they want to make a couple of feature-length episodes, instead! They're thinking of making the season finale a 3-hour show!"

"What?" He hollered, not being able to hear her.

"THEY WANT TO DO FEATURE LENGTH EPISODES." She yelled at the top of her lungs, and then coughed, because that'd strained her throat.

"Huh. So we're going to do movies?" He yelled interestedly, sneezing when water got up his nose.

"Just the—" She started hoarsely, and coughed again. "Just the finale at first!"

"What?"

"Why don't we wait to chat until you get out of the shower?"

"What?"

She took a sip of her water to soothe her throat, and took a deep breath. "LET'S WAIT TO TALK UNTIL YOU'RE DONE SHOWERING."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea."

Alfred took mercifully short showers, and a little while later he was seated across from her in his own terrycloth robe, reaching for the coffee. "So, we're doing movies?"

"Yes, but just the season finale at first." Theresa explained, uncovering his omelette for him and pushing the plate of croissants his way. "Have some cantalope, too. They want to do a three-hour episode, see how it plays. If it does well, we get the go-ahead to do movies."

"Neat. Can you pass the sugar, please?"

"Cream too?" He nodded, and she handed him both. "How did last night go?"

He lowered his fork, frowning. "Good."

"Everything went smoothly?" She prodded.

"Yeah, same as always." He poked at his omelette. "She brought her cousin, too."

"She brought her cousin?" Theresa paused, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"She brought her cousin, and I sorta went with it." He stared at his food, avoiding looking up.

"Both of them? Really?" Theresa raised an eyebrow. Brazen _hussies_. "Well...that's...good for your reputation, I guess. Who was she?"

He lifted a shoulder, concentrating on his food.

"I don't know anything about her cousins." She said thoughtfully, fingers drumming the table. She didn't exactly like the thought of Alfred dating a girl she hadn't screened. She was very careful about who she chose for their little game; she didn't want some unknown getting in and mucking the whole works. But...she stared thoughtfully at Alfred, who was eating his breakfast quietly, and glanced at her laptop screen...he was good enough to pull it off with just about anyone. As 'Alfred', he could make the world fall in love with him and not expect anything in return...she noted his troubled frown, and smiled fondly, leaning on her elbow. Alfred, _her_ Alfred, didn't understand that at all. He didn't understand why all the women he'd dated as 'Alfred' fell in love with him, and firmly believed that they'd slept with him; no matter how many times she explained that it didn't matter what had _actually_ happened, because people would believe what they _wanted_ to believe.

She had proof of that right on her laptop, where she'd been reading an article called 'Alfred Jones: The Man Behind Amando'. Although it was featured in a prominent Spanish periodical and written by a reputable journalist, the article connected 'Alfred Jones' to no less than 15 prominent women in the entertainment, and suggested there was a rather higher number behind the scenes. It also expanded most elaborately (and laughably seriously— but it was a _wonderful_ story) on the backstory she and Alfred had fabricated, citing references and quoting 'people who knew', and others she and Alfred worked with (there was a rather outrageous lie in there from their _dear_ director). The article even suggested that she and Alfred were romantically involved— or, more accurately, that she was madly, unrequitedly in love with Alfred, and waited faithfully on the sidelines while he sowed his wild oats, hoping against hope that someday he'd see her love for what it was, and return it.

It was sweet, in a way, and patently ridiculous, but it was also _fantastic_ for her reputation. Hers and Alfred's both, really, although he wouldn't see it that way. If she showed him the article, he'd get upset, and want to go and 'fix' things, and he wouldn't understand at all that the more he denied it, the more people would believe it was true. Especially the part about her.

Come to think of it...

"You know, Alfred..." She started slyly, and he looked up, curious. As their eyes met she paused, suddenly noticing that he looked...exhausted. Not just tired, she thought, noting the furrow between his brows, but...drained. Of course, he'd stayed out all night, but that he'd done that before, the last three weekends in fact, and it hadn't— oh, dear. Suddenly she felt a little guilty, and very selfish. He'd been working too hard. _She'd_ been working him too hard. It was easy to forget he was playing _three_ characters now; Amando, Valentíne and 'Alfred'. His shooting schedule had gone up— hers too, of course, but his even more— and she'd had him working 'Alfred' so many evenings and weekends on top of that, and he'd done a beautiful job, but...when was the last time he'd had time to just be _himself?_ Alfred had so much energy and enthusiasm, but every actor, no matter how enthusiastic, needed some time away from their characters. When had Alfred been getting that?

_Damn_. She'd gotten so caught up in taking care of their careers, that she'd forgotten to take care of _Alfred_.

And he had the work he was doing as...whatever he was, she'd figure it out someday, on top of everything else. This stupid meeting today, and the paperwork he did sometimes between shoots. Poor boy.

"...Theresa?" He asked worriedly, "Everything okay?"

"Yes, Alfred, thank you." She smiled reassuringly, and tilted her head, starting to work on taking her curlers out. "Y'know, I've been thinking, why don't we take a little break? After your done with your business stuff— do you work tomorrow?"

"I might have some minor stuff to take care of in the morning, just some papers to sign and hands to shake, but that's it." Alfred answered, watching curiously.

"Well, afterwards, why don't we go and have some fun? Do some things you want to do. Anything you'd like, just you and me."

"That sounds nice," he conceded, tearing into the last croissant, "but what about you?"

"We went shopping yesterday, and I lounged about in the pool all evening," Theresa pointed out, piling the rollers on the table, "and today I'll probably spend most of the morning at the spa, since you'll be in the meeting." She shook out her curls. "So tomorrow, after you're done signing your papers, why don't we spend the day doing things you want to do?"

"Really?" He brightened hopefully. "Can we go to the paleontology museum at Terra Amata?"

Theresa kept her face carefully blank. A _paleontology_ museum? Seriously? She could just about stomach an art museum, but a paleontology museum sounded so _boring_. She started to suggest an alternative, but he looked so happy about the idea that she said instead, "At Terra Amata? Okay." He beamed, and she sighed inwardly, resigning herself to several hours of crushing boredom in the near future. "I didn't know you were interested in paleontology."

"Oh, yeah, definitely! Archeology's one of my hobbies, but I like paleontology too. There's actually an archeological dig near there I'd love to get my hands in, but we don't have time to get the permits, so maybe next time." He deflated slightly, and cheered up again almost instantly. "There's stuff there people used over four-hundred-_thousand_ years ago! Way back in the lower Paleolithic period! Did you know—"

Theresa zoned out, until the lack of background chatter told her that he'd stopped, and looked up to see him fidgeting eagerly at her. "That's very interesting." She said, and he beamed. "Is there anything else you'd like to do? Besides visit the museums?"

"Well," he said, resuming his breakfast with more energy than before, "the museum closes pretty early." He gulped his coffee. "Maybe we can go to the beach! Or dancing, I like dancing."

"That sounds like fun." She smiled, more genuinely, as she poured him a fresh cup. That actually sounded like fun to her, too. She loved dancing, and lounging on the beach on the French Riviera? _Heaven_. "We could probably do both. Maybe we can even go dancing tonight— after you take a nap," she amended as he stifled a yawn, "and the beach tomorrow after we visit the museum?"

"That sounds good." He nodded, gulping down the last of his breakfast. "It's a date!"

"Mhm." She agreed, and there was a knock at the door. "That must be your suit. Finish your coffee, it's time to get dressed!"

"Good morning, America." England greeted, a little surprised to find the American in the conference room ahead of him. He was used to being the first person to arrive at every meeting, but this morning it looked like America had beaten him to it. Already seated and with coffee in hand as he went through his papers, America spared him a glance.

"Hello."

"Hello, 'morning, England." He bit back a yawn, leaning on his hand as he read. Hopefully the coffee would kick in soon, the words were starting to blur together.

"You're looking dapper," England remarked as he pulled out a chair and sat down, "is that a new suit?"

"Yep." America glanced down at himself, and nodded, chin still in hand. "It's a bit different than what I usually wear, but I like it alright."

"It's an improvement." England agreed, pulling his paperwork out of his briefcase in preparation for the meeting ahead. "Mind you, it makes you look a bit of a playboy, but it's not bad for all that."

"Thanks." America gulped down the last of his coffee and flashed him a smile. "I got a new job, and I figured I'd better dress the part."

"Oh, yes," England nodded, carefully arranging his things in front of him, "the acting thing, yes? France mentioned something about it."

"I'm sure he did." America said wryly, and gazed wistfully into the bottom of his cup. Two hours before the first coffee break. Would he make it? He sighed, pushing the cup aside. "It's fun, but I'll admit I'm kind of looking forward to today's meeting."

"Really?" England raised a fuzzy eyebrow. "I should think something like that show would be right up your alley."

"You don't watch?" America asked curiously.

England shook his head. "Soap operas aren't really my thing."

"Yeah? That's a relief." America grinned, guessing (correctly) that the real reason England didn't watch had more to do with the show being from Spain than England's genre preferences. "Don't get me wrong, though, it's totally awesome. I love acting, and I love the show, but it feels like I've done nothing for the last several months except live and breathe _'Forever is Not Long Enough'_. It'll be nice to think about something else for a while."

"Hmm." England acknowledged absently, and frowned at the door. "The bloody idiot's _hosting_ the damn thing and he _still_ can't be bothered to show up on time."

"To be fair," America checked his watch, "there's still eighteen minutes before we're supposed to start."

"He'll be late, mark my words." England grumbled, looking irritated. "In the last eight-hundred years, do you know how many times he's been on time?"

"Haven't the foggiest." America yawned, leaning heavily on his arm and poking his files with his pen.

"Five." England lifted a hand for emphasis, fingers spread. "_Five times_ in _eight hundred years._ And two of those were an accident."

"Huh."

"You'd _think_ that when he's _hosting_ the meeting at least he could make the effort, but _no,_ he can't be arsed." England shuffled the last sheaf of papers into place with more shuffling and rustling and tapping of papers on the table than was strictly necessary. "Meanwhile, here _I_ am in his godforsaken pisshole of a country, having hauled myself _all the way across the sea_ and through his ridiculously inefficient roadways to be here on time, for a meeting _I'm not even hosting_, and _he's_ probably only just hauled himself out of bed, and he'll spend the next half hour _fussing with his hair_,as if it'd make any differ'nce, and then 'eel come strollin' in through those doors at 'alf past—"

"Calm down, England; your accent's slipping." America interjected, rolling his eyes. "Why don't you drink your tea." He gestured to the teacup that sat by England's elbow, steam rising from its depths. "That should settle you down. Honestly, you always get like this when the meetings are in France's territory."

"Ah, thank you." England and picked up his tea. "You're right, I need to calm down. I just can't get comfortable knowing he's somewhere in the vicinity, plotting who-knows-what. You know he always pulls something at these meetings." He sipped the tea, and looked down at the cup in surprise. "This is quite good. Your brewing skills have improved, America."

"Pffffft, I didn't make that." America snorted, reaching for his coffee. "You know I don't touch that shit."

"Well if you didn't make it, who did?" England frowned, staring suspiciously at the tea. Had France snuck in when he wasn't looking and slipped him some tea? What sort of nefarious scheme was this the start of?

"You probably made it and forgot about it." America suggested. "You're getting old, you kn—" He paused, frowning down at the full cup of coffee in his hand. "That's weird, I know I finished this already."

"Mysterious beverages appearing out of nowhere? What's going on, here?" England peered at the corners of the room. "I don't see any fairies..."

"Do you think it could be a ghost?" America asked nervously, pulling his feet up on his chair, his gaze darting around the room. "L-l-like, a p-poltergeist or something?"

"No, I don't see any ghosts, either..." England mused, and scowled. "It's probably that idiot trying to confuse me. Well, it's not going to work! I'm going to drink this tea and I don't care if anything strange happens!"

"N, no, it was just me, guys." America and England jumped a little in their seats, head swiveling towards the sound of the voice. Canada smiled patiently at them from where he stood next to the beverage cart, holding a carafe of coffee.

"Oh, Canada." America relaxed, exhaling in relief. "It was you? Thanks, then, but when did you get here?"

"Ten minutes ago." Canada replied, one golden brow twitching a bit. "Just after England. I did say hello, you know."

"Y-yes, of course." England smiled, a little unsettled. How on earth had he missed Canada coming in after him, _again? _"W-well, thank you for the tea, Canada. It's very good."

"You're very welcome." Canada smiled, placing the carafe back on the cart. "I'm glad you like it. Would you like some maple syrup in it? I already put some in your coffee, America." He added, when his brother opened his mouth to ask. America smiled his thanks, and returned to poking his paperwork.

"That's alright, but thank you, Canada." England reassured him, lifting his teacup. "It's fine as it is."

"Good morning, everyone~." North Italy sang, skipping into the room, followed by Germany and Japan, and shortly thereafter by several other nations, and soon the room was bustling with people and noise (rather more so than one would expect from eight people, even if three of them _were_ France, England and America)

After a brief period of chaos, Germany called the room to order. "Alright, it appears as though everyone who should be here is in attendance," Germany made a note in his files, and glanced around the room. "As well as...several additional persons." He frowned, tapping his pen on the table. "We're supposed to give prior notice if we intend to bring a guest."

"As host of this meeting, I reserve the right to invite any guests I choose." France said primly, flicking his hair back over his shoulder. "Spain should be a member of our little group, anyway."

"France said I could come!" Spain smiled sunnily, waving at the others.

"I need Lithuania to hold my paperwork for me." Russia insisted, holding firmly onto a nervous Baltic nation whose arms were full of papers. "I couldn't do it without him."

"I hope I'm not causing any problems by being here," Belgium raised her hand, smiling apologetically, "I'm just standing in for Romano. That's alright, isn't it?"

Germany shifted uncomfortably. "It's unconventional. Couldn't South Italy be here himself?"

"Well, he _did_ come, but he's been detained." Belgium explained. "So I'm here to take notes for him."

"Let her stay, Germany!" Veneziano urged. "We need more pretty girls in the meeting, ve~!"

"I agree, she should stay!" America contributed. "It's really nice of her to help Romano out!" He turned to Belgium, smiling and waving. "It's nice to have you here, Belgium!"

"Thank you, Ama- merica." Belgium giggled, stuttering a little on the name. "I'm happy to be here!"

"Ve~, I wish I had known everyone was bringing a guest," Veneziano sighed, pouting a little. "I would have brought someone, too!"

"I can be your guest, little Italy!" Prussia popped up from under the table.

"What—" Germany started, startled. "How long have you been down there?"

"Yay!" Veneziano threw his arms around Prussia. "I have a guest! Thank you, Prussia! Guys, Prussia's my guest, okay?"

"What a friendly meeting this is!" America laughed. "Everybody brought friends. It's like a party!"

"Yes, well." Germany sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I suppose it's too late to do anything about it now. Let's just start the meeting."

"Then as host, I'll have first say." France decided, standing and leaning both hands on the table. "America! Why haven't Amando and Catalina had sex yet!"

"Haha, what?"

"Oh!" North Italy exclaimed, clapping his hands. "Are we asking questions about _Forever is Not Long Enough?_ Then I want to ask questions, too! In the episode where Amando saves Gaspar from the fire—"

"Oi, America! Why are Amando's shirts always ripped!" Prussia jumped up in his seat, waving his arm in the air.

"Uh—"

Belgium leaned forward eagerly. "Are you and Theresa Álvarez going out?"

"How long do you intend to stick around in my country!" Spain demanded, slamming his hands on the table.

"Well, I—"

"Are there going to be any nude scenes in the future?"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Shouted Germany, rising from his seat like the wrath of bureaucracy. "This is not the time and place for such things! The purpose of this meeting is to discuss issues of mutual or global concern. Please stick to those."

"Oh, but my dear Germany," France contradicted smugly, "we _are_ discussing matters of 'mutual concern'."

"Why are they asking you all these strange questions, America?" Russia asked innocently.

America's smile was almost a grimace, a little embarrassed and unwilling to discuss it here. "I'm acting in a show—"

"It's very good!" Veneziano interrupted joyfully. "It a Spanish drama called '_Forever is Not Long Enough_', America plays a character called Amando! It's very exciting, you should watch it, ve~!"

"You're in a Spanish drama, America?" Lithuania spoke up, smiling fondly at the young nation he'd once worked for. "That sounds interesting!"

"Yes, it sounds very interesting." Japan contributed politely. "I wouldn't have expected you to be in a Spanish drama, America-kun. I'm glad to see you and Spain have gotten over your differences."

"We haven't!" Spain denied hotly from the other side of the table.

"Come now, Spain," France smiled, throwing an arm around his friend and prodding his cheek, "admit that you're as big a fan as any of us. You love it, too~!"

"As fascinating as this all is," England interjected, holding up a hand, "I must agree with Germany. This meeting isn't the place for these matters. We should really focus on matters of _import_."

"Dude, was that a _pun?_" America asked, staring a little incredulously at his former caretaker.

"...P-perhaps it was." England admitted, blushing a bit. "Slightly."

"_Nice."_ America approved, grinning. "You _can_ be funny sometimes!"

_"Be that as it may,_" Germany interrupted sternly, "let's all focus on why we're here. This meeting, while somewhat informal, is for _business_. Let's try to conduct ourselves accordingly."

"Actually, guys, I agree with Germany." America said. "I'd be happy to answer questions about the show after the meeting, but while we're here let's stick to business, okay?"

"Boo, that's no fun at all." France pouted, settling down in his seat. "But very well, we shall attend to business."

"Yes, I'll be serious!" Veneziano agreed, and raised his hand. "And I have a serious question for America!"

"Sure thing, Italy." America sat to attention, kind of pleased to be getting down to actual nation stuff finally. "What is it?"

"So, in the episode where Amando saves Gaspar from the fire..."

Simultaneously (and oddly enough for broadly the same reason), Germany and America put their faces in their hands, and sighed.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I was hoping to get to Romano and more '<em>Forever is Not Long Enough_' in this chapter, but we'll have to wait 'til next time. _

_I debated quite a bit as to whether to include the details of 'Alfred's night or just skip over it altogether and reference it vaguely. I'm still not sure I made the right decision, but there it is. _

_You may not want to read the next bit of the Author's Note._

_André Marie Chénier, 'Voltaire' (the penname of François-Marie Arouet), and Charles Baudelaire are all classic French 'Romantic' poets (in the classical sense more than the 'when a man loves a woman' sense, although they wrote about that, too). In all honesty, I think America would be a bit leery of classical French 'Romantic' poetry and writing. I imagine at one point he would have explored it, partly out of curiosity because of its popularity in France and other parts of Europe, partly because of France, and partly because its 'Romantic' designation; but I imagine he would have been rather quickly turned off, because some people just aren't the **type** to enjoy reading about nihilism, rape, torture and beastiality, no matter how 'sensually', 'evocatively', or satirically the subjects are addressed._

_Which isn't, of course, all French poetry is about...but rather more than you would expect, is._


	8. In and Out of Character

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

* * *

><p>True to her word, Theresa spent most of the morning at the spa. After several wonderful hours of pampering she back to the suite, where she called the agent she and Alfred shared, deciding which interview requests to accept and which to decline, and which public appearances would bring them the most exposure. She followed that up with a few quick business calls, confirming their shooting schedule for the next week and so on, and then with rather more social calls that were actually business calls in disguise (as most social calls were in her line of work); promising that she and Alfred would be attending certain parties and key events; socialising and catching up and gossiping.<p>

Then, because keeping up the front of friendliness while talking to the stuck-up, ignorant, sexist (even the women!) assholes that made up ninety-five percent of the powerset in the entertainment industry gave her migraines, she decided to go down to the bar and have a drink. Besides, it was hours yet before Alfred had said his meeting would end. She pulled her hair back and put on a pair of sunglasses to lessen the chances that she would be recognised, and headed down to the hotel bar for a little pick-me-up.

It wasn't busy, which wasn't surprising. There would only be a few customers at this hour. After the apathetic bartender mixed her drink, Theresa settled at a little table in the far corner, where she could see everything without attracting too much attention. After all, people-watching was a constant practice of any actor worth their salt; what better way to learn how to be one? Any shlub off the street could play a character, but it took a _real_ actor to turn a _character_ into a _person_.

Besides, it was relaxing.

She was just becoming engrossed in watching an elderly couple near the window when a disturbance at the bar caught her attention. A young man at the counter was berating the bartender in Italian— despite the bartender's clear lack of understanding or interest— and his voice and tone was...not _exactly _familiar, but she was sure she recognized it from somewhere. The dissatisfied, irascible Italian growl was pinging something in her memory.

"..._don't touch it_, bastard!" The young man, whose back was to her, was saying furiously, "Leave it alone! I'm watching that, understand, stupid?"

The bartender, though not able to understand his words, _was_ able to understand that the strange, angry man yelled and gestured furiously at him everytime he reached for the dial of the television hanging over the bar, decided that he didn't particularly care what was on the television anyway, and let it be. He returned to the counter, and the man subsided into barely audible grumbling. Theresa sipped her drink and stared thoughtfully at his back, confident that her dark glasses would disguise her interest as she tried to figure out what her mind was trying to tell her. Had she met him before? He didn't _look_ immediately familiar, not from the back, anyway. She didn't currently work with any Italians...perhaps she'd met him during her modeling days? Most of the Italian models she'd worked with were taller, though. Perhaps a designer? He _was_ dressed marvelously stylishly (she _had_ to get the name of his tailor); but professionally, too, like a businessman or an executive. He clearly wasn't here on vacation; not only did his manner of dress indicate a business-related reason for his presence, but he was _very obviously_ not enjoying himself in any way, despite being in the French Riviera on a beautiful, sunny day, in a five-star hotel and — _oh_. _Oh!_ That one Italian! From the phone call, Alfred's phone, the one who called a while back to yell at Alfred, perhaps this was him? It seemed probable. After all, there was the meeting in the hotel right now, Alfred was there, and it was consistent with the clothes and attitude; and now that she replayed the memory in her head the voice _did_ sound the same, or at least _very_ similar...but if he _was_ here for the meeting, why wasn't he _at_ the meeting? Was it because Alfred was there? Had something happened between him and Alfred? Had he gone to the meeting, and left early?

"Hey, bastard, get me another one." The subject of her curiousity demanded, lifting his empty glass. The bartender, who'd been busy staring languidly into space and wishing he had a cigarette, glanced his way, recognizing the lifted glass as a universal symbol for 'more of the same', and pondered briefly whether it was worth leaving his comfortable spot lounging artistically against the counter to acquiesce, especially since there was obviously no tip in the offing. He glanced at the customer's face, and seemed to decide that, on the whole, he preferred to keep all his appendages on his person, and drifted over to mix the drink as requested. "_Un Americano, monsieur."_ He murmured disinterestedly, presenting the finished drink.

"IT'S NOT AN AMERICANO!" The Italian snapped as he grabbed it; but it was too late, the bartender was already wandering off, heedless to his displeasure. "It's _Milano-Torino,_ you stupid French bastard. It's _Italian_, from _Italy_, you got that!" He called after him, and subsided to grumble into his drink. "It has nothing to do with that asshole or his people. Stupid fucking American ruins _everything_."

Well, _that_ sounded promising. Her index finger tapped the side of her glass as she thought. Should she go and try to find out if he was the person she suspected he was, and if so, what had happened between him and Alfred? Of course, this was all conjecture. It was possible, it _seemed_ likely, but that didn't mean it was true. He could just be an Italian here on unrelated business who stopped in to the hotel for a drink after an unsuccessful business deal, or something along those lines. The voice _sounded_ similar to the one she remembered, but perhaps it was just a coincidence. But if it _was_ the same person, she was _terribly_ curious— about how he felt about Alfred, their history together, and perhaps he could give her clues as to what Alfred _did_ before she'd met him. But if he wasn't, it would be terribly awkward, and a wasted effort. But what if he _was_ the person from Alfred's past, and he left and she lost her chance? She worried the inside of her lip, weighing curiosity against caution.

Theresa was a woman, _and_ an actress. Caution didn't stand a chance. But how should she approach him? Her eyes narrowed behind her glasses as she considered her options.

"Dammiiiit, I shouldn't have come." The young man moaned, tossing back most of his not-Americano in one swallow, and glanced up at the television as he lowered his glass. "Ah— the new episode." He said, with rather more interest in his voice.

Theresa glanced to the screen, curious to see what had changed his demeanour. A preview for _Forever is Not Long Enough? _That was interesting. But was he a fan, or was he just watching it because he was bored? If he was a fan, it complicated things. What if he recognized her?

She glanced around to make sure no-one was watching, and sunk down in her seat, grabbing her purse. She pulled out a compact mirror and spat on her napkin, swiping furiously at her makeup. Checking the results in the mirror, she frowned. Stupid water-resistant, longer-lasting makeup! Carefully dipping part of her napkin into her drink, she tried again. There we go, much better. She reapplied new makeup as quickly as she dared, using different shades and little tricks to slightly alter her appearance, making her lips look a little thinner, her mouth a little wider, softening her cheekbones a little; and nodded, satisfied. She not only looked different than when she came in (not that a man would notice, in her experience), but also different from Catalina. That and the sunglasses should keep her from being recognized, she decided (she hoped, actually, but it was a very _confident_ hope).

She picked up her glass and purse and made her way to the bar, formulating a plan to initiate contact.

As it happened, he beat her to it, glancing over his shoulder as she approached, eyes lighting up.

And then he smiled, and her heart skipped a beat.

"_Vaya sirena más guapa que acaba de salir del mar._" He said smoothly, lifting his glass in a gesture of admiration, eyes sparkling devilishly; and she was caught off-guard when she started to blush in response. Okay, so he was _handsome_ (...dammit, he was gorgeous), but she was _used_ to attractive men! She was around them all the time! She was a _professional._ She worked with a _particularly _beautiful specimen _every day,_ in fact (although Alfred didn't exactly _count_ after she'd gotten to know him— he was too much like a little brother to her now). Though she had to admit that she hadn't seen a smile as nice as this one in a while.

That wicked little sparkle in his eye and sexy, bad-boy smile wasn't helping, either.

"_Encantado. Lovino Vargas,"_ he held out his hand in introduction, "_soy un ladrón, y estoy aquí para robar tu corazón._"

"_T-Terese Alva de Córdoba." _She said, reverting to a pseudonym, and was horrified to hear herself giggle. No! She wasn't a hormonal little preteen! She had _control!_ It wasn't even an original line! (Although really his delivery was spectacular, if only Alfred were here to pick up some tips...)

His smile widened, and he winked, and her blush deepened. Quickly she looked away, taking a gulp of her cocktail to help compose herself. The liquid burning its way down her throat gave her a moment to pull herself together. Professional, she was a _professional_. She looked back and smiled a little shyly (she'd pretend to be a university student on holiday, girlish and naive; men ate that stuff up). _"¿H-hablas español?"_ She asked, gesturing towards him and letting a little of her surprise show through, because it was a natural reaction when coming across an (_incredibly_ hot, no, don't think about that, she was here for Alfred) Italian in France who spoke Spanish. So fluently, too, not even a trace of an accent.

He smiled as if she'd said something amusing. "_Sí, bella. Hablo español." _Glancing at her nearly-empty glass, he gestured to the seat next to him, arching an eyebrow invitingly._ "¿Puedo comprarte una bebida?"_

(and then the author got tired of typing the little slanty things over the letters and trying to remember how to conjugate and decline in Spanish, and getting confused over genders, and decided to 'translate' the rest of the conversation for the English-speaking crowd, the lazy bastard.)

"I'm not sure if I should let you, Mister Vargas." Theresa teased lightly, sliding onto the stool. "It sounds a little dangerous, no? Gaining a drink, but losing my heart— that's a high price to pay for a cocktail, don't you think?"

"Hm, how about a kiss for the drink," he proposed with a roguish smile as he leaned closer, "and my heart for yours. That's fair, no?"

She let herself giggle again (it was _in character_ now), and bit her lip as she pretended to think about it. "How about, a kiss on the cheek for the first drink, and one on the lips for the second?" She offered shyly.

"Ah, Miss Córdoba, you make offers like that and I'll be buying you drinks all night." He laughed, gesturing for the bartender to refill her glass. As the man wandered over her companion leaned on the bar and sipped his own drink, looking her over with an admiring gleam in his eye (she couldn't help preening a little under his gaze). "Tell me, why do you hide your beautiful eyes behind those glasses?"

"Oh," she touched them as if she had forgotten she was wearing them, and smiled, feigning self-consciousness. "Forgive me, I don't mean to be rude. I just came from an eye exam, you see, and the doctor suggested I wear sunglasses for a few hours to protect my eyes."

"Then it's good that you've done so." He approved. "Heaven forbid anything should happen to something so lovely as your eyes."

"You haven't even seen my eyes," she pointed out, smiling. "How can you be so sure they're lovely?"

"If they belong to you, they're lovely." He said decisively, as if it was a matter beyond doubt. "There can be no question."

"It looks like my drink is ready," she accepted the glass from the bartender, and cast a coy smile at her companion, "would you like your kiss now, or later?" To her considerable surprise and delight he blushed, dropping his gaze and fiddling nervously with his glass.

"L-later is fine." He muttered, staring into his glass. Her smile widened, and she fought back a laugh. The young man was blushing as badly as Alfred did whenever she tried to talk to him about sex scenes, and she'd only offered to _kiss_ him. So really was actually quite an innocent boy behind his brash facade, hmm? Suddenly she wanted to pinch his cheeks and tease him mercilessly.

"Are you _sure?_" She asked innocently, leaning a little closer. "Because I can kiss you now, if you'd like."

"Ah," his blush deepened, and his eyes grew wide as he began to stutter. "Ah, um...um, th-that's okay. I-I'm, I'm not ready yet."

"If you're sure." She smiled sweetly, tilting her head. "Just let me know when you're ready."

"O-okay."

Ah, she wanted to tease him so badly, but she bit back the urge. He looked like he'd run away and hide if she teased him too much further, and that would make it difficult to get any information out of him, and she wanted to find out if he knew her little Alfred. And suddenly, she had an idea just how to do that. Quickly, she rifled through her purse as though looking for something. "Oh, dear. This is a little embarrassing, but do you have a phone I can borrow for just a moment? I left mine in my room."

"Ah, of course." He nodded briefly, blush slowly fading, and pulled it from his pocket, handing it over.

"Thank you. I can be so silly sometimes." She smiled self-depreciatingly, and quickly scrolled through his address book, looking for — and there was Alfred's number. _Bingo. _She pretended to dial a number and listen to it ring for several moments, and then handed it back. "No answer. I'll try again later. Thanks for letting me borrow it."

"N-no problem." He answered, slipping it back into his pocket.

"So, Mister Vargas, what brings you to the Riviera?" She sipped her drink, and sent him a smile over the rim. "Are you here for business, or pleasure?"

"I'm...here on business."

"Oh?" She asked interestedly, and appeared to remember something. "Oh— I overheard someone talking about a business meeting in this hotel, are you here for that?"

"...Yes." He answered reluctantly, toying with his glass again.

"But, isn't it going on right now?" She pointed out, curiously. "Shouldn't you be there, instead of here?"

"Nah, my stupid little brother is there, he can take care of it." He waved dismissively, taking a drink. "Everybody likes him better anyway."

"That can't be true," she protested. "You're so sweet and nice! I'm sure everybody who meets you _loves_ you."

He blushed, looking away. "Yeah, well, they don't."

"Then, they're very stupid people. I think you're _very_ nice." She smiled, laying a hand on his shoulder. "But, even if your brother is there to take care of business, you're still the older brother, no? And you came all this way." She paused, asking gently, "Is there perhaps another reason you're sitting down here with me, instead of up in that room where the meeting is going on?"

His brows furrowed, and he hunched over his drink, pursing his lips in an odd little frown. "...There's someone there I don't want to see." He admitted, and took a drink.

Ah-_ha_. "Oh? Someone you work with?"

"No." He scowled, face flushing in irritation this time as his finger tightened on his glass. "I'm never working with that asshole again."

"Oh, why's that?"

"A lot of reasons. But mostly because the _last_ time I worked with him, he _completely _humiliated me." He gestured emphatically. "Stabbed me _right_ in the back the _minute_ I had it turned."

"Oh, my. He did?" She laid the innocence on thick, deeply curious. That didn't sound like Alfred. Maybe he was talking about Alfred's creepy uncle. "That's _terrible_. Is he French? Is that why you don't like France?"

"What? No, he's an _American_." His lip curled disgustedly on the word, and he added under his breath, "I don't like _France_ because _that_ pervert's a disgusting pervert."

"American?" She repeated, affecting surprise. Maybe it _was_ Alfred then. It seemed unbelievable that Alfred could be malicious, but this young man didn't seem to be lying. What could have happened? "I wouldn't have expected that from an American. I have a friend who works with an American, and she says that he's usually very nice. He can be a little dense sometimes, but he's sweet."

"Oh, yeah, he comes off all innocent." The young man nodded, frowning. "And you start to think hey, sure he's kind of an idiot, but maybe he's kind of alright. He can't read the atmosphere at _all_, but hey, neither can my brother." He tossed back the rest of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he added sourly, "And then he turns out to be an asshole, just like everyone else."

Theresa took a sip of her drink to cover her frown. Up until the backstabbing part, that sounded very much like Alfred. Maybe there'd been a misunderstanding, or something. She looked thoughtfully at the young man, who was staring morosely into his empty glass, and gestured for the bartender to refill his drink. "So, what happened, exactly?" She inquired gently, leaning onto the bar with an expression of sympathetic interest. "Between you and this American."

He looked away. "I don't wanna talk about it."

Well, she could tell _that_ wasn't true. "Come on," she coaxed, and lay her hand on his arm again, squeezing gently. "You can tell me. It might help if you talk about it. "

"Well..." He pursed his lips in a show of reluctance, but glanced at her to see if she'd really listen. "It's a long story." She leaned on her elbow, chin in hand, to indicate her interest, and gave him an encouraging little smile, waiting patiently as he took his now-full drink and sipped it to steel his nerves. He set the glass down, fidgeting as he began. "...It was a long time ago."

"I'd just come back to work after a long time away. Things had been...bad...for a long time, and I'd ...given up. I mean, I tried at first, but nothing I did seemed to make any difference. No matter how hard I worked, or what I tried, things just kept getting worse, and there was nothing I could do about it. So for a long time I... stopped trying." He shifted in his seat, and looked away. "And then, well...things started getting better. Stabilizing. And after a while, I thought...m-maybe, maybe I should give it a try again.

"It was that bastard's fault; always going on and on about how everyone has the power to change the world and anyone can make dreams come true, and how if you just try you can do anything, that kind of bullshit. Maybe it's the way he says it, like he _actually_ believes it...like it can't possibly _not_ be true." He stopped and rubbed his his face, continuing frustratedly, "And even though you_ know _he's an idiot and a moron, if you listen to him too long you start to believe it, you start to think...maybe it's true. Maybe I can do it, maybe I really can make a difference. I can do it if I try, right?

"So, I tried. And at first it went good, I was getting shit done, getting noticed. Everything was going great." He took a drink. "Then there was this deal. A _big_ deal. A _really_ big deal. If it went through, it was going to be great. It was going to be the biggest thing I'd done in a long, long time.

"So, I contact the bastard, and we get together to get things started. And I worked my _ass_ off. For a _year_ I work with this asshole, takin' him out to eat, business meetings, conference calls, _fuck_, I even went to a couple of his _baseball games._ The _works_. At least once a week we get together on this thing. And all this time, we're working out the details. Smoothing things out. By the time we were finished, it was a thing of beauty. It was going to be great; for me, for my people, for all of us. I was _proud_ of it. It was good. _Really_ good. And _I'd_ done it. Well, me an' him."

"And then all we had left to do was sign it. We set a date, he was going to bring the paperwork, and we'd both sign it, and we'd have a little celebration, just the two of us. Of course, there was going to be a big official party later, too, cause it was a _damn_ good deal, for both of us." His cocktail enjoyed some personal attention for a moment. "So the big day comes, and I'm sitting there waiting for the idiot to show up. And I wait, and I wait, and I wait. For _three hours_ I wait."

"Don't tell me he never showed up." Theresa said incredulously.

"_He never showed up."_ He said bitterly. "And do you know _why_ he didn't show up?"

"...Why?"

"Because he'd already gotten my_ brother_ to sign the paperwork."

"_No."_ Theresa gasped in consternation, covering her mouth. "He _didn't_."

"He _did. _And nobody fucking bothered to tell me! My boss, my brother, the bastard, _nobody_. And I'm fucking sitting there _waiting,_ thinking that finally,_ finally_ I've done something I can be proud of, _finally_ I'll get the recognition I deserve, and _nobody bothered to tell me._" He slumped in his seat. "Fucking _bastards_. For a fucking _year_ I busted my ass, and my _brother_ gets all the credit. As fucking usual."

"I can't believe he did that." Theresa said, incredulous on his behalf. "Why would he do that? That's terrible!"

"'Cause he's an asshole." Lovino Vargas' voice was muffled, his face hidden in arms folded on the bar. "Probably likes my stupid little brother better, just like everyone else."

"I'm sure that's not true." Theresa said comfortingly, patting his back. "I can't imagine anyone _not_ liking you."

"Tell that to the rest of the world." He muttered, and lifted his head. "You know what the worst part is? I actually started to _like_ the bastard. I thought that maybe...maybe we were starting to be _friends_." He snorted, digging the heel of his palm into his eye. "Shows what the fuck I know."

"Did he ever try and explain himself?" Theresa pried gently. "Or apologize?"

"No." Lovino Vargas answered morosely, reaching for his drink. "He called a couple times, acting like nothing had happened. Left messages asking if I wanted to hang out, shit like that, like he hadn't _fucking humiliated_ me in front of _everyone_."

Theresa made a sympathetic sound. "I'm so sorry. No _wonder_ you don't want to go to the meeting. If I were you I'd _never_ want to see him again."

"That's right." He agreed. "He's a _bastard."_

"He _is._" Theresa agreed, feeling indignant on his behalf. When she got a hold of Alfred... She sipped her cocktail, thinking, and cast a sidelong glance at Lovino Vargas, who was leaning his chin in his hand, slouching dejectedly against the bar. And yet...he'd kept Alfred's number, and had dreams about him. Hm. And he'd showed interest in _Forever is Not Long Enough,_ earlier...if he _was_ a fan, surely he knew Alfred was in it? _Surely_ he _recognised_ him? Unless he _wasn't_ a fan.

Well, that should be easy enough to figure out.

"Let's talk about something else." She lowered her drink, smiling encouragingly. "Something nice. Like..." she pretended to think. "Oh! Did you see the latest episode of _Forever is Not Long Enough?"_

"Ah, you're a fan?" He straightened, brows raising.

"I usually work, but I watch it when I can." She admitted shyly, playing with the ends of her hair. "I missed most of last week, so I'm a little behind, but I caught most of yesterday's episode." Which was true, she and Alfred had watched it on the flight over.

"It was great, right?" He stated, eyes brightening eagerly. "Did you see the part where Amando fought off all of Juan's guards and snuck into the manor?"

"Oh, yes!" She said, matching his excitement. "And then he grabbed all the papers showing what Juan was planning?"

"Yes!" He grinned, gesturing excitedly. "And then he takes off his shirt and uses it to slide down the cable, and lands on the captain of the guard's stallion—"

"And gallops off to stop Catalina's wedding!" Theresa finished with him, giggling. "It _was_ very exciting, wasn't it?"

"It was _great!" _He threw his arms in the air. "I can't _wait_ 'til Monday, when he'll _finally_ stop that bastard once-and-for-all."

"You think he'll be able to do it?" Theresa pretended to be doubtful. "I mean, Amando's very good, but Juan's one of the best swordsmen in the land."

"Pffft." Lovino Vargas waved dismissively. "Amando's going to wipe the _floor_ with that asshole."

"If you say so." Theresa hid her smile behind her glass.

"I _do_." He stated confidently. "Did you see the episode where..."

* * *

><p>America tried not to sigh, casting a wistful glance to the other side of the conference table. The room had been divided into two sections shortly after the meeting started: the other side, where Japan, Germany, England and Russia sat (along with Lithuania), engaging in 'serious' business, and <em>this<em> side, where he was stuck with Prussia, Belgium, France, North Italy and Spain answering questions about _Forever is Not Long Enough_. Spain had fallen asleep about half an hour ago, half-sprawled on the table; and even though that meant America and England had to keep a close eye on France to make sure he didn't molest the sleeping nation it was kind of a relief, 'cause he seemed to be in a bad mood today. For some reason, Spain seemed upset about something he'd done (even more than usual, although he wasn't sure what'd been this time). Everyone else on this side, though, was having a great time asking him question after question.

"...when she _enters_ the room at the start of the ball Catalina was wearing a _white_ dress, but in the _next scene_ when she's dancing with Count Navarre she's _clearly_ wearing a _red_ dress."

"Wow, Prussia, you're so observant!" Veneziano admired. "I never noticed all these things!"

"It's nothin', Italy." Prussia preened, clearly pleased with the praise. "I guess I'm just good at payin' attention, hahaha!"

"Ve~, you are!"

"So how 'bout it, America?" Prussia prodded. "What's the deal, there?"

America bit back another sigh. Prussia had asked _tons_ of these kind of questions. "Well, the _official_ reason is that she left the room right after the ball started to change dresses, because the Baroness was wearing a white dress and she didn't want to show up her guest by wearing something similar; but the _real_ reason is that one of the stagehands tripped and spilled coffee all over the bodice after the first scene." Prussia cackled, writing it down, and Veneziano gasped in dismay.

"No, it was such a nice dress!"

"It _was_ a nice dress." America agreed, one side of his mouth curving up in amusement. Theresa had been _pissed_. "It was double-sided satin."

"Oh, no!"

"I have a question~." France languidly raised the hand he'd been petting Spain's hair with (hair was considered a safe zone). "Will there be—"

"France, I can't answer questions about what's _going_ to happen, I told you that." America said, a little impatiently. "I'm only going to answer questions about episodes that have already aired."

"Spoilsport." France pouted, folding his arms.

"Okay, guys," America held up his hands, smiling apologetically, "this really has been great, and I like talking about the show, but can we wrap it up, please? I have some business I need to get done before the meeting's over, and we're running out of time." Actually, they had a couple of hours yet, and the only _real_ business he had was a project proposal he wanted to get some input on before unveiling it at the next world meeting, but _still_.

"Yeah, sure, okay. I hear ya, America." Prussia agreed, digging around under the table. "I just have some things for you to sign first."

"Sign?" America's brows furrowed. "Like what?"

"Like these!" Prussia slammed a duffel onto the table, unzipping it and dumping it out to reveal a treasure trove of _Forever is Not Long Enough_ collectibles. He grabbed a carefully packaged tube from the top of the pile, uncapping one end and pulling out a scroll of glossy paper, unrolling it across the tabletop. "I'm going to sell these online, and I can get a lot more for them if they're autographed!"

"Wow, Prussia; where did you get this poster?" America asked, impressed, as he stood and accepted the gel pen Prussia pressed into his hand. "It's super-limited edition." He stared at the large poster of Amando spread out on the conference table, shaking his head. Of the three different posters he'd posed for (Theresa had posed for five), this one showed the most skin, one of the reasons it had been so exclusive; it was considered a little too 'provocative' to sell in stores. "I thought only the founding members of my fanclub got this poster."

"I have my ways, kesesese~." Prussia smirked, leaning on the table next to the poster to watch the golden signature come forth. "Make it out to 'My greatest fan'. And put a little heart after the signature, okay? That way I can charge extra."

"M'kay." America uncapped the pen and bent over the poster. "You want me to sign it as 'Amando', or Alfred Jones?"

"Waitwaitwait," Prussia's hand shot out, closing over America's before the pen could touch the poster surface. "Wait! Don't write 'To my greatest fan'. Make it one of Amando's lines from the show, uh..." He paused to think, eyes roving the room. "Ah! That one scene, remember: where Amando and Catalina were trapped in the abandoned mine together after Amando had pushed her out of the way when it caved in—"

"—And he was pinned under the rocks and that really big shoring beam and had that really bad head wound and he thought he was going to die so he confessed his feelings!" Veneziano finished excitedly, clasping his hands together.

"And then when they were rescued and Catalina visited him in Brother Parador's hospital, he pretended he didn't remember." Belgium sighed sadly.

"Ve~, he was pretending?" Veneziano asked, dismayed. "But, I thought he forgot because of his head wound!"

"No, didn't you see that look he gave her when she left?" Belgium shook her head. "He was only _pretending_ to have forgotten, Veneziano. He didn't want her to know he remembered."

"But, but, why?" Veneziano questioned, confused. "If he remembered, why would he lie to her?"

"For many reasons. Because he did not think she could love him back;" France counted off, "and because they cannot be together because she is the daughter of a lord of the realm and he is but a simple stable boy they found on the beach; and because she was being romantically pursued by Juan at the time, who had her father's approval; and last but not least because he was trying not to involve himself because he's come to Spain for his own reasons that have _yet_ to be explained..." He paused, and glanced at America.

"I _told_ you, I can't tell you." America repeated patiently, for what seemed like the thousandth time in the last several hours. "I can answer questions about stuff that already happened, but I'm not supposed to talk about things that haven't been revealed yet."

"Che." France sniffed, clearly disapproving of this information control, and turned back to Veneziano. "Anyway, whatever reasons he's had for coming to Spain seem to make him reluctant to involve himself personally with anyone. So in essence, he lied to Catalina to protect her."

America rolled his eyes. It was fucking stupid if you asked him. Who cared if Catalina was higher class or whatever? Amando shoulda just been honest about it and told her how he felt. Then they would have gotten together a long time ago, and been happy. But _no_, Amando had to make everything _complicated_.

"That was way back near the beginning of the season, though." Prussia pointed out. "There's really no _denying _they love each other now. He just broke out of prison to stop her wedding to _Juan,_ for fuck's sake."

"That's true." Veneziano brightened. "He won't be able to pretend he doesn't love her, now!"

America smiled wryly. In his experience, they could find a way to explain _anything_ away in a soap opera, especially if it meant it'd stretch out the storyline. "So," he turned to Prussia, "you want me to write the confession from the mine collapse, right? In Spanish, or...?"

"Yeah, do it in Spanish." Prussia confirmed. "It's more authentic that way."

"'Kay." America stuck out his tongue in concentration as he wrote.

"It's so _romantic."_ Veneziano sighed, leaning on the table on the other side of America to watch. "That was a beautiful scene, America!"

"Thanks." America shot him a quick smile. "Glad you liked it, Italy."

"I loved it! I cried and cried." Veneziano informed him. "You should tell the writers they did a very good job!"

"Actually, I made it up on the spot." America said absently as he wrote. "All the lines in that scene were ad-libbed. We didn't have a script for it, since it wasn't in the original version of that episode. It was added in later, 'cause the studio wanted Amando to be a bigger part of the series, so we had to go back and film a lot of extra scenes to throw in, and there wasn't time to knock up scripts for all of it, so the director put us in the mine and told us to run with it. I think it turned out pretty good."

_"You_ made it up?" France blinked. "_You _ad-libbed Amando's confession, America? Without any help?"

"Yep. In fact, in the first twenty-eight episodes of this season most of the scenes with Amando were ad-libbed." America paused. "Amando' or 'Alfred Jones'?"

"Alfred Jones." Prussia craned his head to see, and America nudged him out of the way so he could finish the signature. "And don't forget the heart!"

"Yeah, yeah."

"I must confess, I'm impressed." France remarked offhandedly, running his fingers through Spain's hair. "I didn't think you had a romantic bone in your body, America."

"Just because I don't grope everything that moves," America straightened, capping the pen. "Doesn't mean I can't be romantic. There ya go, Prussia. All good?"

"That's great." Prussia picked up the poster, viewing the signature with satisfaction. "I'll be able to get _twice_ as much for it now. Don't put that pen away," he added, rolling up the poster and setting it aside, pulling out a handful of pictures. "I've got more things for you to sign." America sighed, uncapping the pen again.

"That confession _was_ very romantic." Belgium curled a lock of her hair and tilted her head, smiling curiously. "Was it inspired by your feelings towards Theresa Álvarez?"

"What do you mean?" America asked, working his way through autographing a small stack of portraits.

"Ve~, are you in love with the actress that plays Catalina, America?" Veneziano asked eagerly.

"Haha, what?" America looked up with an incredulous grin. "_No_. Theresa's awesome, but we're just good friends."

"Oh." Veneziano deflated a little, and then smiled philosophically. "Well, it's good to have friends!"

"So you and Theresa aren't romantically involved in any way?" Belgium pressed.

"Nope." America straightened again, handing Prussia the stack of portraits. "Just good friends."

"What about the lovely miss Álvarez?" France queried from where he sat petting his friend. "Has she expressed any romantic interest in you?"

"Hahah, Theresa?" America snorted, amused. "No way. I'm pretty sure she thinks of me like a brother."

"'Pretty sure'?" France siezed on the phrase. "You're not _completely_ sure?"

"Well, she's never said it in so many words, but I'm mostly sure, yeah."

"And she's never shown any interest in you at all?" France leaned on the table, curious. "Never kissed you, or touched you in a way that expressed any romantic intentions?"

"Other than what's necessary for work, no." America gave him an odd look. "Why do you keep asking if we're involved? Is it so hard to believe we're just friends?"

"When you look at her like _that_ and say things like 'If I had but one moment of life from birth to death, and could spend the whole of it gazing into your eyes, I would count myself a thousand times blessed', and then tell us that you _made it up_ on the spot, then yes, America, it is hard to believe."

"I didn't actually ad-lib that one." America wrinkled his nose. He hadn't improvised that scene, and hadn't been particularly satisfied with it. "What's your point?"

"_Regardless."_ France huffed, rolling his eyes. "My _point,_ is that improvised or not, I don't believe that you of all people could behave in such a fashion, and say such things, and _not_ have feelings for the person you're saying them to."

America gave him a dry look. "It's called 'acting'." He deadpanned.

"You're not that good of an actor." France shot back.

"Fuck you." America flipped him off.

"I do think you're a good actor," Belgium said reasonably, "but, you do have to admit your scenes with Miss Álvarez are _very_ passionate. It's difficult to imagine there's nothing between you two but friendship."

America exhaled frustratedly through his nose, running a hand through his hair. "Fine." He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, and his posture changed. He turned his head, and opened his eyes slowly, fixing Veneziano, who stood watching curiously, with a steady gaze. Slowly, one side of his mouth curved up, and he huffed a laugh, a breathless little sound of awe. "_God_, you have beautiful eyes." Veneziano blushed, and smiled, fidgeting slightly.

"Thank you!"

America shook his head slightly, still wearing that awed little smile, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing, as if it was too good to be true. "They glow, you know." He said lowly, almost reverently. "Like fireflies on a moonless night in midsummer, mysterious and ethereal." Veneziano stared at him, frozen to the spot. America's brows drew together, and he lifted a hand, slowly, to caress the side of North Italy's face with his fingertips, arcing over a brow, pausing at his temple next to the delicate skin of wide brown eyes, and he frowned thoughtfully. "Your spirit shines through them." America murmured, as though the words were being pulled from somewhere deep inside him, and he was unable to hold them back. "Like a beacon, bright and beautiful and shining, drawing me in." He stared intently into Veneziano's eyes for a moment, and then slid his hand to cup the base of Veneziano's head, drawing him closer, blue eyes smouldering under lowered lashes."If I had but one moment of life from birth to death, and could spend the whole of it gazing into your eyes, I would count myself a thousand times blessed."

"_O-oh."_ Veneziano's cheeks flushed and his lips parted, his hands finding America's chest as he lifted his chin. America lowered his own face to meet him, intending to pull back at the last second, just like in the original scene— and was abruptly jerked back. He looked over his shoulder to see Germany staring at him coldly.

"_What_ do you think you're doing, America?"

"Dammit, West, you're _ruining_ the _scene!"_ Prussia flailed, as Veneziano 'Ve~'d disappointedly.

"I must agree, Germany, you're _completely_ disrupting the atmosphere." France shook his head, and Belgium made a sound of equally disappointed agreement, nodding.

"What?" Germany frowned, confused and a little bewildered, looking back and forth between America, whose jacket collar he gripped, and the others, who were staring at him with disapproval and disappointment. He became only more confused when America's demeanour changed suddenly, and the nation in his grip chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. America turned smoothly, catching the hand on his collar in his, and pried it loose. "Were you jealous?" He asked, low and amused.

"I, I..." Germany said, caught off guard, as much by the question as the way America was looking at him, eyes intent and hungry and dark in a way that caused the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. America hummed, low in his throat, and stepped closer, matching every step a nervous Germany took back with a step forward, until the taller blond was almost backed into the table, and America slid an arm around Germany's waist, pulling him close.

"Were you jealous?" He repeated deliberately, almost dangerously, as he lifted Germany's hand, and without breaking eye contact, America turned his head slightly to draw his lips across the soft skin of Germany's hand, from wrist to knuckle. Germany sucked in a sharp breath, eyes flickering, completely thrown.

"I— What are you—" He attempted, but his voice, already shaking, died completely in his throat as America mouthed his knuckles with soft, open-mouthed kisses, the corners of his lips turned up in a wolfish smile, eyes gleaming darkly as they watched him beneath lowered lashes.

Germany had no idea what was going on. America's teeth grazed the sensitive skin covering the crest of bone, a gesture that seemed to say 'I have fangs, but I'm not using them— for now', and America lifted his head, wolfish smile still stretching his lips, and lifted Germany onto the table. Surprised, Germany fell back, bracing his hands behind him, staring with rapidly widening eyes as America leaned over him predatorially. "Can't you see that it's _you_ I want? Since the moment we met you have held me captive." He purred, slowly running his hands up Germany's sides. "And when I touch them, when I'm with them, it's only because I'm seeking in them even a shadow of the warmth and fire that burns within you." He lifted a hand to caress the side of Germany's face, lowering his face to stop a hair's breadth from Germany's, almost whispering, low and intent, across his lips. "There's a fire in you that I long to touch, to taste, to feel it hot on my tongue and burning beneath my fingertips. You burn like the sun, and like the sun, when I look at you I'm blinded to anything else. You fill my senses, and I want to burn, to mix my fire with yours and let them mingle until it consumes us both, until there is nothing left but fire." He paused, staring intently into Germany's eyes, stroking his thumb across Germany's lips, down to his chin, and turned Germany's face to the side, and, sliding his other hand up Germany's thigh, he lowered his lips to his ear, murmuring huskily, passionately, "_Burn with me."_

Then he braced both hands on either side of Germany, pushing himself back up to hover over him, and smiled. "There, see? You don't feel anything, right?"

"W, what?" Confused and thrown and completely off-balance, Germany turned his face forward again, eyes flickering as he tried to get his breathing under control. "I, uh —"

"See?" America smiled triumphantly at the others. "We don't feel anything for each other. It's acting!"

"Very well, you've made your point." France acknowledged, leaning his chin in hand and smirking a little.

"That was very good, America!" Veneziano praised, smiling delightedly. "You can keep burning, if you'd like."

Prussia was too busy cackling to make a contribution.

"It was _very_ nice, America." Belgium agreed, grinning. "I didn't recognize the scene, did you make it up?"

"You didn't?" America's brows rose, and he looked around at the others for confirmation. "It hasn't aired yet?"

"Nope." Veneziano shook his head.

"Oh." America winced, smiling sheepishly. "Well, I guess you guys just got a spoiler, then. Special treat, just for you."

"So it seems as though there _will_ be sex scenes in the future." France's smirk widened. "At least one, no?"

"Sorry, no more spoilers. You'll have to watch to see." America shook his head, and turned back to Germany. "Thanks for helping me out, Germany. You did a really good job!"

"You're...welcome, America." Germany nodded a little shakily, still trying to get a grip. "If you're done, can I..." He gestured to indicated that he wanted to get off the table.

"Oh, yeah." America pushed himself off the table and stood, reaching out a hand to help Germany up. The nation wavered a bit once he was standing, a little unsteady on his legs. "Steady there. You alright?"

"Ah, yes." Germany nodded, pulling himself together. "I'm fine. Just a little...confused. What just happened?"

"America just turned you into a girl for two minutes and twenty-five seconds, West." Prussia snickered, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "I wish I had my camera on me, kesesese~!"

"I was demonstrating to everyone that when I'm playing a character, it's the _character's_ thoughts and feelings they're seeing, not mine." America explained, and turned to Veneziano. "With you, I was Amando, expressing how he feels about Catalina."

"I..see." Germany nodded, and cleared his throat. "And, uh...who were you with me?"

"Sorry, man." America chuckled, slapping him companionably on the shoulder. "You'll have to watch to see!"

"America was acting out scenes from _Forever is Not Long Enough_, Germany!" Veneziano explained for him. "He was playing Amando, and you and I were Catalina!"

"I see." Germany said again. After a moment's thought he turned to his brother. "This is the show you've been so interested in lately?"

"Yep!" Prussia grinned, slapping his brother's back. "You should watch it with us, West!"

"Perhaps I will." Germany conceded. "This 'Amando' character, he plays a big part?"

"He's one of the main characters!" Veneziano confirmed. "He's in every show!"

"You'll _love_ it, West!" Prussia's grin reached epic proportions. "I run a couple websites about it, I'll show them to you when we get home. We can have a marathon to catch you up on all the old episodes!"

"Oh, I want to come!" Veneziano begged. "Can I come, too?"

"Of course, little Italy! You and South are always welcome at our house!" Prussia beamed, throwing out his chest. "We can all watch it together!"

"I don't think brother will want to come," Veneziano admitted, "but I do, ve~."

"Well, you can ask him." Prussia said magnanimously.

"Sounds like fun, guys." America interrupted. "And I'm happy you all like the show, but if that's all, can we get down to business, now? I'd like to get some things done before the meeting's over."

"Yeah, yeah, sure." Prussia nodded, pulling a notebook out of his pocket once more. "Right after I run some things past you. I have some ideas I think would be _great_ in the show. How do you feel about...guest appearances?"

America sighed, casting another longing glance over to the other side of the room.

* * *

><p>"...and he's brave, and strong, too. There's <em>nothing<em> he can't do." He lowered his drink, and leaned his chin in his hand, sighing deeply. "There's no-one else like him, you know?"

"You just can't help falling in love with him." Theresa pretended to agree, watching him carefully. She already had a pretty clear idea of how Lovino Vargas felt about the character he'd spent the last two hours extolling the actions and virtues of, but she was having fun baiting him, too.

"Yeah." He agreed, and then flushed, straightening. "I mean, not me, b-but, other people would fall for a guy like that. Like him. A-Amando."

"Of course." She nodded seriously, and hid her smile in a sip of her drink. "I wonder if the actor that plays him is as likeable."

"Hell no." Lovino Vargas scowled. "That bastard's _nothing_ like Amando."

"Oh?" She feigned surprise. "Really? How do you know? Have you met him?"

"I, I just know." He stammered, looking away. "He's nothing but a jerk."

"That's too bad." She hummed disappointedly. "Well, at least we have Amando to admire. He's not a jerk at _all._"

"That's right." He agreed emphatically. "They're _nothing _alike."

"Well," she teased, grinning, "they're alike in _one_ way. They're both _very_ handsome, don't you think?" She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as his face twisted up with the internal struggle her comment provoked. He clearly wanted to deny that Alfred was handsome, but couldn't conscion saying a word against Amando. He was saved from having to do either when the little wristwatch she wore chimed an alarm. "Oh, I didn't realise it was so late!" She exclaimed in real dismay, glancing at it. Alfred's meeting would be ending soon, and she didn't want him to find her down here with Mister Vargas. That could ruin _everything_. She stood, gathering her things together. "I have to go. It was _so_ nice to meet you, Mister Vargas. Thank you for a _lovely_ afternoon." She paused, and on a whim, opened up her purse and pulled out her dayplanner, writing down some information on a blank page. "This is my email address." She informed him as she wrote. "My cell phone is my work phone, so I can't give you my number, but I'd _love_ to keep in contact." She smiled, tearing out the page and handing it to him. "Feel free to email me whenever you'd like. We can talk more about the show, and Amando, and things like that."

"O-oh, okay." He accepted it with a small blush, looking a little surprised. "I, uh...thanks."

She slung her purse over her shoulder, and leaned forward, planting a kiss on his cheek. "For the drink," Theresa told him, as his eyes grew wide and his face flamed red, and that made it impossible to resist pressing another kiss to his other cheek. "And that's for your company." She smiled, wiggling her fingers in farewell as she turned to go, leaving a combusting Italian at the bar.

Theresa hoped Alfred's meeting wasn't going to run late. As soon as he got back to the suite, they had some things to discuss.

* * *

><p><em>AN: T<em>_his chapter did not want to eennnnd. I had to cut it short because man. Also, parts of it (you know which) were super-embarrassing to write, so embarrassing that I could not reread them to edit them. I got sakerat to read part of them for me and she said it was okay, but if you see anything wrong with it let me know, okay? I'll fix it, even if it melts me in embarrassment and I have to go hide in the closet for a while after 'til I cool down._

_I had some relevant author's notes but I'm kind of burnt out now and cannot recall them at the moment. If I remember them and they were actually important I shall stuff them at either end of the next chapter._

_Bonne vie! _


	9. A Woman's Touch

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_A couple of quick reminders: This is an M-rated fic. There are allusions to sex, and dreams about sex, and eventually, there will be sex. Since this is a soap opera/dramatic/absolutely silly fic, most of the sex will be soap opera/romance novelesque sex. Keep that in mind. Also, I sincerely hope you are of age. _

* * *

><p>"Well, that was a total bust." America muttered under his breath. So much for getting away from the show. He sighed, picking up his briefcase, and looked around. The meeting was over, and he hadn't gotten anything done; but at least everyone was currently preoccupied with something that wasn't him or <em>Forever is Not Long Enough<em>: Prussia was showing off his collectibles to an admiring Belgium, France was waking up Spain, North Italy was begging Germany for ice cream (oh, that sounded like a good idea!), Russia was reading over Lithuania's shoulder, and England and Canada were chatting by the door...if he moved _now_ he might be able to get out of the room without being caught.

He glanced to the left, and the right, and made a beeline for the door as quickly and quietly as he could. Almost there...two more steps and freedom..._yes!_ He darted through the door and into the hallway, rejoicing in his escape.

Too soon, as it turned out. "America, wait a moment, if you please!" England's voice called after him before he got more than halfway down the hall. "I'd like to have a word with you!"

America winced, cursing internally, but turned to wait for England to catch up, and even attempted a smile. "Hey, England. What's up?"

England took a moment to compose himself, trying to appear as though he wasn't out of breath from his short trot down the hall after America. "I wanted to talk to you about what happened in the meeting today."

America launched into damage control. "If this is about what happened with Italy and Germany, it wasn't what it looked like. I was only acting—"

"No, no," England held up his hand, cutting him off. "No, I quite understand. I was an actor once myself, you know."

"You were?" America paused, surprised.

"Oh, yes." England reassured him, "For over twelve years I was one of the most renowned actors of the early 1600s. I was in all the Bard's greatest works. Hamlet in _Hamlet,_ Olivia and Sebastian in _Twelfth Night,_ Prospero, Cleopatra, Falstaff..." He reminisced, eyes misty with nostalgia, smiling a little proudly. "My King John was _particularly_ well received, _as_ was my Rosalind. And my Prospero was the toast of the town. And my _Titania..._there's never been such a queen of the fairies since._"_ His smile turned dreamy for a moment as he lost himself in memories of past accolades. Then he blinked, and cleared his throat, blushing a little. "Well, I did have a bit of an edge, there." He admitted. "After all, I knew the real thing."

"Uh...huh." America stared at him in blank fascination. England as an actor? And a couple of those sounded like women's roles...he slapped down the mental image of England in a dress before it could arise. "Wait, the 1600s? I don't remember that. How come you never mentioned it to me before?"

"Nevermind that." England dodged dodgily. "The _point_ is I understand what it's like to be an actor. The fame, the money, the tight pants and fancy dresses," (America quirked an eyebrow) "the adulation of your fans...the heady rush of _energy _and _power _when you're up on stage." He clenched his hand, eyes bright and cheeks flushing as he continued almost passionately, "I know how easily it can all go to your head. To be carried away by the glamour of it all." He paused, lowering his hand and shifting, continuing more subduedly, "I just...wanted to give you some advice, is all. One actor to another, as it were."

"Yeah?" America was intrigued. "Okay, shoot."

"I...confess I don't quite know where to start." England admitted, frowning concernedly. "There's such a lot I ought to tell you. Things you should know. Perhaps I should tell you about _my _experiences. But...it's a little difficult..." He hesitated, looking uncomfortable. "I don't suppose there's a pub around here where we could go and speak privately? If I'm going to talk about this I'd like to have a drink or two in me."

"There's a bar downstairs in the lobby," America informed him, "but—"

"Oh, no fair, England!" Belgium teased, having come out of the conference room along with North Italy just in time to hear England's last remark about finding a pub for drinks and misunderstood the reason. "I wanted to ask America out for drinks, too! It's been a while since we've had the chance to catch up, hasn't it?" She winked America's way, and cast her catlike grin at England. "But it seems you beat me to it, hmm~?"

"Ah, no, I—" England flushed a little at having his motives misunderstood.

"Oh, are we going out for drinks?" Veneziano clapped his hands excitedly. "How fun! Germany, we're going out for drinks with America!"

"What? Drinks?" Prussia exited the conference room, his duffel slung over his shoulder and carrying the carefully-packaged poster in his free hand. "I want to come too!"

"Of course!" Veneziano assured him. "Everybody's invited, ve~!"

"Wait, no—" England protested, hands lifted in denial. "That's not what—"

"How nice it is to see everyone getting along so well." Russia smiled as he dragged a worried-looking Lithuania through the growing gathering of nations in the doorway. "It's too bad, but Lithuania and I won't be able to stay this time. Be sure to drink a glass of vodka for me, okay~?" .

"If we're going out for drinks, I know this _divine_ little club we simply _must_ visit." France contributed, standing in the doorway. He turned back to the conference room to call out, "Hurry up Spain~, we're going out for drinks!"

"Don't just invite yourself along!" England yelled, taking his frustrations out on France. "America and I were having a private conversation!"

"Ahonhon~, trying to keep our little America all to yourself, England?" France grinned, waggling his eyebrows in an insinuating fashion which he knew drove the Englishman insane. "Now that he's a famous actor you want to curry his favour, hm? Getting close to him to take advantage of his status, is that it?"

"Wha— No! That's exactly the sort of thing I'm trying to warn him about!" England sputtered, flailing a little. "And we don't need _you_ along to muck up the works!"

"Sure, whatever you say, England." Prussia leered, snickering. "Your intentions are totally innocent. We believe you, don't we, Belgium."

"Oh, yes." Belgium nodded, lips pursed mock-seriously. She knew England's intentions actually _were _innocent, but she was enjoying teasing him. Besides, she wasn't going to let him get away with stealing her chance to spend some time with America, even if it meant interrupting his plans. She needed to find out about Theresa Álvarez for Romano (and she kind of wanted to spend some time with America, too. He'd grown up so cute)! "It's very obvious, isn't it?"

"I have innocent intentions! I want to be alone with America, too!" Veneziano volunteered, waving his hand. "We can all be alone with America together! As a group, ve~!"

"As long as I get some drinks I'll be alone with anyone." Prussia agreed, turning to his best buds. "Right guys?"

"Are we going out for drinks?" Spain yawned, rubbing his eyes and leaning on France. "That sounds nice."

"It's decided, then." France nodded, satisfied. "We'll all go to—"  
>"Now hold on a minute!" England interrupted, protesting. "That's not—"<p>

"You can't—" France started to argue, joined by Prussia and Spain, just for the hell of it.

"Keep us from our drinks—

"You English bastard—"

"Ve~, but—" Veneziano chimed in, just to be a part of things.

"Guys! Guys." America called over their yelling, and held up his hands, gesturing for them to calm down and listen for a moment. "I don't have a problem with going out for drinks with everyone, and if we did," he added, turning to England for a moment, "I'm sure we could find some time to talk," England nodded, reluctantly acknowledging this, "and it _does_ sound like a lot of fun," America added, turning back to everyone. "But I have plans with—"

"Alfred?" He momentarily froze, momentarily as a familiar female voice called him from the end of the hall near the elevator. Crap, the girls from last night! _Fuck_. Automatically, he slipped into character and into a charming smile as he glanced around. Great. _Both_ of them were standing at the end of the hall, staring at him in surprise as they tried to determine if it was really 'him'. As soon as he made eye contact, they broke into smiles and giggles and ran towards him, waving.

"Alfred!"

He turned to the group of watching nations.

"Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen." He said smoothly, charming smile still in place, and turned to walk towards the girls, arms spread in greeting. "_Mes belle amies!"_ They giggled delightedly at being greeted in French, and he took them in his arms, kissing each of their cheeks and lips in turn. _"Quelle surprise!"_

The assembled nations stared.

"Bloody hell he's speaking French." England gaped in mounting horror as the girls' kisses got a little more _passionate_ than greeting kisses should be, and one of the girls reached down to grope America's ...backside. "He's speaking French and he's _acting _French."

"He _is." _France covered his mouth in disbelief, his eyes wide, delighted smile growing behind his hand. "I cannot believe it. I have _never_ been so proud!"

"What are they saying?" Prussia elbowed France sharply, eyes on the action. _"What're_ they _saying?"_

"Oh, ah.." France blinked, translating distractedly. "He's saying he thought they'd left this morning...the girls' French is _terrible_, I can barely understand it, something about...sleeping through their departure time? Because of ...the activities...last night...oh!" He covered his mouth with both hands, flushing happily. "I'm _so proud!_"

"What, _what?" _Prussia nudged him rapidly. "What is it?"

"He was with them both! Last night! And he still came to the meeting, no _wonder_ he looked so tired." France fanned himself with his hands as his emotions overwhelmed him, flushing with pride and pleasure. "Oh, apparently he was _very_ good. They say they'll remember it always. He gets that from me, of course," he added, preening briefly, "Oh, he's telling them— Oh! Oh!" He pressed his fist to his mouth, and swallowed hard, tearing up.

"_What!"_ Prussia poked him hard in the ribs.

"He's _quoting_ my _poetry!_" France choked out, blinking rapidly, and sniffled. "Peirre de Ronsard! He _remembers! _I didn't think..." he paused, overcome, and pulled out his handkerchief to dab at his eyes. "I didn't think he was _listening!_ He _does_ love me, after all! I'm so touched!"

"Yeah, okay, that's great, but what're they _saying?"_ Prussia asked impatiently, unimpressed.

"Oh, they've switched to Spanish." France waved a hand unconcernedly, pressing his handkerchief to his nose and sniffling. "Something about the girls calling their father or uncle who's a producer and getting him something he wanted, I don't know. He _remembers!"_

"He's sleeping around to further his career?" England frowned, heart sinking. That was _exactly_ the sort of thing he'd been hoping to prevent. Among so many other things. But it seemed the boy was doomed to repeat the same mistakes _he'd_ made so long ago. He only hoped that it wasn't to late to warn him about the _other_ mistake...

"I don't know, I wasn't really listening." France said airily, sniffling. "Good for him if he is, too."

"No, I don't think so," Spain contributed, frowning thoughtfully at the trio a little ways down the hall. Those were _Spanish_ girls... "The one girl said 'I know you weren't aware of it, but my father's an executive producer'. It was a chance meeting, I guess?"

"The lucky bastard." Prussia admired, crossing his arms. "I could do with some luck like that, kesesese~!"

"Oh, they're leaving." Veneziano observed, as the girls kissed Alfred goodbye and left, waving.

"Aaand here he comes." Prussia remarked, as Alfred turned back to them.

"So, anyway," America started normally, stoically trying not to blush in embarrassed guilt at what'd just happened and the fact that _everyone_ had seen it and probably misunderstood. "I—"

"My _boy!"_ France flung himself forward, gathering America in his arms and kissing his cheeks. "_Mon beau bébé!_ I have _never_ been so proud! You have made me so happy!" He buried his face in America's shoulder and squeezed him tightly, crying a little. "You remembered my poetry!"

"Um, yeah?" America tentatively hugged France back, patting his back, a little alarmed by his tears but happy he was happy.

"I _knew_ you loved my culture deep down inside!" France sobbed muffledly into his shoulder.

"Those girls were Spanish, weren't they!" Spain pointed accusingly. "You had better have used protection, America! I don't want any of your little bastards running around my place!"

"What? No!" America stared, taken aback by the insinuation that he had...would...with those girls. His cheeks flushed hotly in embarrassment. "I would never do that!"

"You _didn't use protection?"_ Spain fisted his hands in his hair, eyes widening in horrified abhorrence. "I'm going to be overrun with illegitmate Americans! No! I won't have it! All those little American babies with their obnoxious smiles and big blue eyes and chubby cheeks and dark curly hair and— oh my god that would be _so_ cute," he paused, calming a little as visions hordes of blue-eyed, plump-and-dimple-cheeked, curly-haired children toddled around in his mind; and then he shook his head, trying to recapture his earlier revulsion and anger. _Americans! _In _his home!_ _No!_ "But no! I don't want it!"

"No, I didn't— I mean, I—" America paused, realizing there was no way they were going to believe that he didn't do what it looked like he'd done, and sighed, resigned. "Look, there won't be any babies. I promise."

"There had better not!" Spain huffed, clenching his fists in warning, and squashed down the small part of him that was a little disappointed that the adorable babies in his vision weren't going to exist. "Or I'll be very angry, you hear?"

"No babies." America assured him. "You don't have to worry."

"Okay." Spain huffed, hands on his hips, feeling a little victorious, like he'd won a battle to prevent swarms of Americans invading his shores.

"So, about those drinks we're all going to be alone with." Prussia prompted, bored of all this emotion and lack of alchohol.

"Oh, yes, we should really get going." England started. "America and _I, _that is. You all can—"

"Actually England, guys, I'm sorry, but I really can't go out for drinks right now." America interrupted to inform them firmly but apologetically. "I have plans. And I really should get back to the suite, Theresa's probably worried. I told her I was going to be back almost an hour ago, now." He sighed, patting France's shoulder before disengaging him from his person. "But, we're supposed to go out dancing tonight. I'm sure she wouldn't mind going out for drinks beforehand if you guys want to meet up somewhere later this evening?"

He suddenly found himself the focus of the wide-eyed stares of several nations.

"_Theresa Álvarez_ is _here?"_ Prussia almost shrieked, vibrating with fanboy excitement. He fisted his hair. "_Mein gott_, I _have_ to meet her! America, you have to introduce us!"

"I want to meet her, too!" Veneziano exclaimed almost-as-excitedly. "Oh! Oh!" He turned to Belgium. "And we have to get brother! He wouldn't want to miss this!"

"You're right!" Belgium grinned delightedly, clapping her hands together. Such luck! Theresa Álvarez was here! She could introduce her to Romano and his first love was sure to follow!

"Englaaaand, America's sharing a suite with a beautiful woman~!" France sing-songed in a tattle-tale way. "He's living in siiinnn~."

England twitched, desperately clamping down on the rising apoplectic fit. Perhaps it wasn't what it seemed; after all, when he was an actor he used to share suites with beautiful women all the time, and — oh, _balls._ His fists clenched in despair.

"I _am not_, it's a two-room suite." America protested, frowning a little at the insinuation France was making about Theresa. "And besides, I haven't spent much time in it. I didn't have much chance."

England clasped at his heart, breathing in relief, while France sniffed in disappointment.

"Well, I suppose we _must_ believe you're only friends if you would spend the night with those two young ladies when you have a vibrant, beautiful woman like her waiting for you in your suite." France said ironically, nodding in mock-seriousness. "Very well. But, I'm still proud!"

"I'm glad to hear it." America sighed, missing the irony entirely, and slung his briefcase over his shoulder again. "Okay guys, I really do have to go. Why don't you guys decide when you want to get together and leave me a message letting me know when and where, and Theresa and I will show up. 'Kay?"

"Yes, yes, I'll arrange everything." France agreed, fluttering a hand. "I know _just_ the place. Drinks _and_ dancing, so your darling co-worker won't have to miss out on her fun. We're looking forward to meeting her."

America smiled a little, ruffling his hair. "To be honest, I'm sure she'll be excited to meet you, too. She's very...curious about what I do when I'm not acting."

"Why don't you just tell her?" Veneziano asked, curious.

"She likes to guess." America grinned. "She said she wants to figure it out on her own, and telling her would spoil the fun. And it's interesting seeing what she comes up with."

"Why is everyone standing out here?" Germany demanded exasperately, coming out of the conference room along with Japan and Canada to find a cluster of nations blocking the way. "If you weren't going to leave, you should have helped clean the conference room after the meeting. You left a terrible mess."

"I-it's alright, eh?" Canada tried to reassure him. "The three of us managed alright."

"Sorry guys, I'll be sure to help next time!" America laughed sheepishly, turning to head out. "Bye! Leave me a message when you know what the plans are!" He waved over his shoulder as he took off before anything else happened to stop him.

"Germany! I'm sorry I didn't help clean, I'll help next time!" Veneziano greeted enthusiastically, clinging to Germany. "Guess what? We're all going out for drinks later with America and Catalina! You're coming too, aren't you, Japan?"

"Ah, thank you, but, my age..." Japan declined politely, hurrying away. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy a drink or two with friends on occasion, but the thought of spending an evening with the nations present when they were intoxicated gave him a preemptive stomachache.

"Aw, that's too bad. Bye Japan!" Veneziano waved after him, and turned back to Germany. "So, are we ready for ice cream?"

"I never agreed to buy you ice cream." Germany reminded him, fully aware of the futility of his argument, and sighed. "Very well. Get your things and I'll check the directory for the closest ice cream parlour."

"I already know where it is!" Veneziano beamed, gathering his stuff together and latching onto Germany's arm, tugging him along. "There's a cafe not far from here!"

"Come on guys," Prussia grinned, slapping Spain's shoulder and nudging France. "West's buying us ice cream!"

"He is? How nice of him!" Spain yawned, rubbing his eyes. "I could use something sweet right now. And maybe some coffee, too."

"Yes, sounds nice." France nodded, and turned to pounce on an unsuspecting England before he could get away. "Come on, England! Maybe some ice cream would sweeten up your sour spirit!"

"Wh-what! I'm not sour!" England flailed as he was dragged long despite his struggles. "Let me go, you stupid frog! I don't need any ice cream, and I certainly don't need any ice cream with _you!"_

Belgium watched them go, lips twitching as her smile threatened to break into laughter. What a fun morning it had been! She exhaled, and stretched, catlike, to diffuse some of the excitement bubbling up in her so she wouldn't start skipping down the halls like a little girl on sugar; and took a moment to brush out her skirts, before heading purposefully back to the suit she was sharing with Romano. She covered her mouth, unable to keep a giggle from escaping. It was so exciting! She couldn't _wait_ to tell her little Romano he was going to meet Catalina! Oh! Did he have any suitable clothes for the occasion? Well, if he didn't they could go shopping. Oh, he was going to be so excited! And nervous, probably— Romano could be _so_ shy, poor boy. But that was okay, she'd be there to help him, and really he was such a _darling_ with women that Miss Álvarez was sure to be instantly charmed once they were introduced. It was inevitable, really. And Romano's first love would begin!

Alone in the elevator she indulged in a moment of girlish glee at the thought, clasping her hands to her mouth and bouncing up and down a little on her toes. Eee! It'd be so cute!

"Romano? Romano!" She called as she entered their suite, kicking off her shoes and closing the door behind her. "I have wonderful news! Romano~. Are you in?" She tilted her head and listened, a little surprised that he hadn't answered instantly. Since they were in France, she wouldn't have expected him to leave the suite at all. It would be more likely that he would stay cloistered up in the suite, ordering desserts and wine from room service and watching soap opera reruns and pouting about having had to go to France (she smiled at that— it was awfully sweet of him to agree to come for her sake, considering how much she knew he disliked France. He'd even paid for the tickets and their suite, insisting on the best room so she'd have someplace nice to stay while they were there. But that was Roma all over, he was such a chivalrous little sweetheart. Well, to women, anyway, she admitted with a smile. But that's part of what made it so sweet! It was cute that he treated men and women so differently. And it was kind of nice to be treated so specially by Romano. Veneziano was sweet, too; but he was sweet to everyone, while Romano was only sweet to women! It was like being part of an exclusive club.)

"Roma?" She called, entering the main room. Oh yes, she remembered as she viewed the room— the rooms in this hotel didn't have televisions, so he couldn't have watched soap operas. But there was no tell-tale mess and empty plates and dishes in the main room, or in the little kitchenette to show that he'd been taking advantage of the room service, either. Maybe he'd gotten bored and went out? That would be unusual, but Romano had been going through a lot of changes, lately. Perhaps he was becoming more outgoing? That would be good, Romano needed a little more confidence. Another good reason to get him and Miss Álvarez together— a sweet, lovely young woman's love and support would do wonders for his confidence and development.

...Or maybe he was sleeping, she admitted with a grin as she caught sight of his curl peeking out of the covers out of the corner of her eye as she passed his room. She paused in the doorway to smile at his sleeping form, sprawled out under the covers which were pulled up over his head, except for his rebellious curl which had escaped confinement. He mumbled some unintelligible complaint and squirmed a bit, sighing before he relaxed, and she could just imagine the sulky little pout he was wearing even in his sleep. Poor baby. Worrying about being in France must have tired him out.

She shut his bedroom door as quietly as she could so she wouldn't wake him as she went about the suite, deciding to let him sleep for a while. They had an hour or so before they had to start getting ready for this evening's outing.

In the meantime, she had plans to make. Maybe she'd go shopping, pick up something for Romano to wear, and perhaps even find an outfit for herself that would help her catch America's eye for the evening. She headed to the restroom to freshen up, lips stretching in a catlike, mischievous grin. After all, they _were_ in the romantic French Riviera, weren't they? No sense in letting all that romantic atmosphere go to waste. And America had grown up so handsome! She wasn't looking for anything serious, but apparently he was willing to play, from what she'd seen.

She winked at herself in the mirror. Why should Romano have all the fun, when there was plenty to go around~!

* * *

><p>Theresa stalked the floor like a vengeful lioness, eyes flashing as she waited for her prey. She'd had plenty of time to think about what she'd heard, about what had happened between Alfred and Mister Vargas as she'd made her way up to the suite, and as she waited for Alfred's return, and the more she thought about it the angrier she got. It probably didn't help that like any good actress and Spanish woman she had a flair for the dramatic, and had concocted an elaborate backstory in her head about what had happened and why, and the past between Lovino Vargas and Alfred— because <em>obviously<em> it hadn't started with _The Contract_. The way Mister Vargas had spoken about Alfred and his idealism had made it obvious to her that he'd had some prior interest in Alfred, probably for some time, even if he hadn't realised it himself. She could just see it— the beautiful, sensitive Italian meeting Alfred early on in his career, caught by his boyish enthusiasm and the purity of his idealism, inspired against his will by Alfred's confidence and open friendliness, slowly falling in love by inches, meeting after meeting, encounter after encounter, through the years as they worked together. Engrossed in his work and family affairs— and never thinking of the possibility of falling in love with an _American_, of all things— the young Italian businessman would have been unaware of his growing attraction, his tender feelings, only knowing that there was a longing in his heart, a restlessness in his spirit; not even realising that Alfred was both the cause and the cure.

And then tragedy struck— his father's death— or grandfather, yes. His stern but loving grandfather, who'd raised him and his brother after the death of his parents, and whom he was completely devoted to, the former, formidable head of the business empire he inherited, died; and Lovino Vargas, as the eldest living descendant, took his place as the new leader— but his grandfather had made enemies among his many business rivals, men who'd been too intimidated to take on the elder, more experienced family head, a man too powerful and ruthless to oppose.

But Lovino Vargas was young, too young. He had made an easy target for their revenge. He was talented, and had fought hard, but he'd been betrayed by his grandfather's former allies, who had little confidence in this inexperienced youth's ability to lead them. Between them they'd torn his company out from under him, hungry for his grandfather's power and legacy, leaving him nearly destitute, a broken man— but still, he'd managed to save something, parts of the business, small but important— what his grandfather had started with. Believing that the failure and loss was his fault (although there was nothing he could have done to prevent it), he'd turned leadership of the what was left of the company over to his brother, and given up.

Perhaps thoughts of Alfred had helped him then, and Alfred's example— because Alfred _had_ to be around the same age, if not even a few years younger, and he seemed to be very successful, if the money he threw around was any indication. And then Alfred himself had come along, offering this important Contract, this business deal that would fix everything, restore the fallen former head of the company's self-respect and confidence, and spurred on by the hope Alfred engendered in him and his own unconscious feelings for the American, Lovino Vargas had taken a chance, thrown himself back into the fray, giving it his all. And Alfred had been there by his side, encouraging him and working with him and _believing_ in him (and making the passionate Italian fall even more in love with him in the process), until Lovino had begun believing in himself again, as well. And together they'd made something beautiful, and perfect, something that would restore Lovino Vargas to his rightful place and restore his confidence in himself, as well as others' confidence in him. Inspired by Alfred's support and his unconscious love for the American, Lovino Vargas was growing into his own, becoming the man he was meant to be.

She sniffed slightly, wiping a tear from the corner of an eye, blinking rapidly as tears prickled behind her lids. What a beautiful story. It'd make a wonderful movie. It was so _romantic._

But then _Alfred_ had to go and _ruin_ it all. How could he have _done_ something like that? At worst it was malicious cruelty, and at _best_ it was incredible, _breathtaking_ thoughtlessness. She spun on her heel, hands clenching into fists as she fixed the door with a burning stare. She had a hard time thinking of Alfred as malicious _or_ cruel, even now when she was furious with him, but _thoughtless_? He could do that. But that was no excuse! How could he have done such a terrible thing to that sensitive, sweet and innocent, sexy, tragic, _beautiful_ man! After leading him on for a year, too, no matter how unconsciously!

With his _brother_ no less! Twice the betrayal!

And poor Lovino _still_ loved him, after everything!

(It really would make a wonderful movie. Or perhaps a miniseries. So _romantic_ and _tragic_.)

Ooh! She hissed in fury. When she got ahold of Alfred, she was going to...to...do _something_, she was sure! She wanted to slap him silly, but everytime she thought of slapping him instead of the victorious, vengeful satisfaction she usually got from picturing herself slapping people she was angry with, she'd see his innocent, boyish face, ice cream smeared on his nose, and she couldn't go through with it. It was like thinking of slapping a kitten. It just made her feel _mean_.

And then she'd think of Lovino Vargas, and all the pain he was going through because of Alfred, and want to slap him all over again.

Argh, she was too angry to think. Deciding she needed a drink to settle her nerves, Theresa poured herself a glass of the cognac that'd been sent to the room as a gift earlier, courtesy of Alfred's pervert uncle, according to the concierge (although he hadn't used the term 'Alfred's pervert uncle'). Downing that quickly, she coughed, wheezing a little at the strength of the liquor burning its way down her throat. Once she caught her breath she decided she needed another, as she was still too furious to think clearly. That went down a little more slowly, as did the next, and she was on her fourth glass when Alfred _finally_ walked through the door.

"I'm back," he said as the door shut behind him, dropping his briefcase and kicking off his shoes, loosening his tie. "Sorry I'm late, I—"

"_You!"_ She interrupted, pointing furiously, and staggered across the room, glass in hand, to where he stood, brows rising in surprise. "How _could_ you? And with his _brother!_ Have you no _heart?"_

He paused, blinking, glancing down, and back up again. "Um...I'm not familiar with that script..."

"It's not a script, you idiot!" Theresa slapped his arm repeatedly, incidentally sloshing the liquid in the glass she still held in her other hand onto the floor with the action.

"Um, are we ad-libbing?" Alfred guessed, trying not to flinch under her ineffectual blows. It didn't hurt, but it was unexpected, and he wracked his brain, trying to remember if they'd agreed to practice when he'd got back and who he was supposed to be being, and why they were being hit. Probably Valentíne, then? He tended to bring that out in Catalina...

"No! I'm not _acting! _I'm hitting you because I'm angry with you!" Theresa yelled, irritated at both his lack of flinching and comprehension, and added a few shin kicks for good measure. She felt slightly more satisfied when he _did_ flinch, then, trying to escape her assault by ducking around her, but she followed him, slapping at his arm and torso as he backed away, his hands lifted in a pacifying gesture which she ignored. "How could you be so cruel to that poor, sweet, beautiful man! You're such an asshole, Alfred!"

"What?" Alfred's brows twisted in confusion, and he leaned forward, deftly plucking the glass from her hand. "Have you been _drinking?_" He frowned, sniffing the glass, and blinked, tilting his head as he caught sight of her face. "Are you..._crying?"_

"So what if I am! You'd cry too if you had a heart in that stupid American chest of yours! Which you obviously _don't_, after what you did to him!" She yelled, swiping tears from her cheek with the back of her hand, and tossed her hair back, gesturing imperiously. "I'm furious with you, Alfred! How _could _you? How could you! He loves you so much, and you, you—" she hiccuped, covering her mouth, and swayed, looking green. "Oh, dear..."

"Uhoh." Alfred leapt into action, recognizing the signs, placing the glass on the nearest flat surface and hurrying to her side. "C'mon," he soothed, ushering her into the bathroom, and held her hair back, rubbing her back as she emptied her stomach into the porcelain bowl.

"Ohhhhh..." Theresa whimpered in distress, sniffling, and heaved again. Alfred patted her back, sighing.

"You know you can't take strong alcohol." He reminded her sympathetically, handing her a tissue. She took it, wiping at her mouth, and crumpling it in her hand.

"Not... helping." She groaned, knowing it was true — anything more than one glass of wine or champagne went straight to her head, which is why she and Alfred had worked out a system— but she didn't need to be reminded of that right now when she was miserable and nauseated. She shuddered, heaving again.

He waited 'til she'd finished, and soon she was was seated on the seat (after the mess had been flushed and the lid lowered) and holding the glass of water he'd fetched for her so she could swallow the aspirin he gave her before asking, "So, what was that all about?"

She sniffled wetly, wiping at her eyes with a tissue. She knew she had to look a mess— she was still crying, and her makeup was probably smeared, and _no-one_ looks their best after they've been violently ill, but she was too upset to care too much at the moment. Besides, it added to the pathos. "Which part, the drinking or the yelling?" She asked, mustering up a little hauteur. She was still angry with him, but it was hard to be _too_ angry with someone who'd so sweetly held your hair and comforted you when you were emptying your guts into the toilet, and fetched you water and aspirin afterwards, even after you'd hit them and kicked them. Stupid Alfred, making it hard to stay mad at him. But she would! He'd done something horrible. Lovino Vargas deserved someone being angry on his behalf.

"Um, pretty much everything." Alfred answered, brows furrowing in honest confusion. "I don't really understand anything that happened after I said 'I'm sorry I'm late'. You said you're mad at me, but I don't understand why?"

"No, you don't." Theresa said angrily, sipping her water and setting the glass down forcefully on the counter. "You don't understand anything, and that's the problem. And I can't even slap you! Because it'd be like slapping a kitten for peeing on your favourite shoes. It can't help it, it doesn't know any better. You make it so hard to be angry with you! And I need to be angry with you, Alfred, because you did something horrible. You really hurt that poor man, and you need to understand that—"

"Hang on, hang on." Alfred interrupted, lifting his hands. "Hold up. Can we start over? At the beginning. Because I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't remember hurting anyone, but if I did I want to know who and how so I can apologize. I really don't remember hurting anyone, but you seem to believe I did, and if you're so upset about it, whatever you think it is I did has to be pretty bad. So can you explain it to me? From the beginning. I'd like to understand what's going on."

"Alright," Theresa sighed, running her hands through her hair, still visibly upset. Alfred stood, holding out a hand to help her up.

"Let's move this to the main room," he suggested diplomatically. "This seems like it's going to be a long story, and I think we'll both be more comfortable there. I'll order some coffee from room service, and maybe something sweet, okay? And we can start from there."

"Okay." Theresa nodded, picking up her water and taking his hand, allowing him to help her up and escort her out of the bathroom. He was right, explaining on the couch would be a lot more comfortable than the hard porcelain of the toilet.

Twenty minutes and two cups of sweet, creamy coffee and _petits pots de crème au chocolat_ later, Theresa set her cup down on the table, staring at Alfred.

Alfred sucked on his spoon, despite the fact that all the chocolate had been sucked off ten minutes before.

Theresa narrowed her eyes, deliberately folding her arms.

Alfred stared back, waiting.

Theresa tapped her forefinger on the crook of her arm, irritated.

Alfred pulled the spoon from his mouth. "...Are you done? Is that it? The whole thing?"

"Yes." Theresa affirmed dangerously. "That's it."

"Hm." Alfred sucked the spoon contemplatively, turning his gaze onto his coffee.

"Well?" Theresa demanded, gesturing. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Alfred looked thoughtful, and pulled the spoon from his mouth. "Um," he started, setting it into his coffee cup, and straightened in his seat, looking at Theresa. "I don't understand what the problem is. I mean," he frowned, ruffling his hair, "I get that you're mad and that he might be upset, but...I don't see why? I don't understand what I did wrong."

"You—! Argh!" Theresa made a noise of frustration, picking up the nearest throw pillow and slapping it against the couch cushions. "How can you sit there and say you didn't do anything wrong! You— you _betrayed_ that poor man! You _stabbed_. _Him_._ In. The. Back."_ She pounded the pillow with each word, glaring at him. Seeing his lack of comprehension she gestured at him, elaborating, "How would _you_ feel if _you_ had a brother, and you'd worked on a contract like that and then the person you'd worked with got _your_ brother to sign it instead?"

"Um, well," Alfred shifted, setting down his cup. "My brother and I have different bosses, so that would be illegal; but if we worked for the same boss I wouldn't mind? I'd be convenient. I'd probably thank him for saving me the trouble."

"But you were the one who worked on it! Wouldn't it upset you if someone else finished it?"

"Not really?" He shrugged a shoulder. "I mean, it's just a formality. That sort of thing happens all the time in America. It saves time. Unless there are special conditions it doesn't really matter who finishes a project, as long as it gets done."

"Really?" Theresa frowned, taken aback. They did? How strange. She opened her mouth, and closed it again, pressing her lips together. "I don't—" she hesitated, not sure where to start to get this through his thick, obviously _American_ head. First, she decided, she needed to know _why_ he'd done what he'd done. "Okay. _Why_ did you have his brother sign the contract? Instead of waiting and signing it when you said you would with the person you said you would." She added reprovingly.

Alfred tilted his head, thinking. "Well...I ran into him in after a meeting with Ludwig in Germany, and since I had the contract with me, it seemed a good opportunity to get it done ahead of schedule, _and_ save me a trip." He paused, reaching for his coffee. "Feliciano didn't seem to think anything was wrong with it? He was all for it. I would have thought he would say something if I was supposed to wait?" He frowned, setting the cup on his knee. "He said he'd tell his brother about it, I don't know why he didn't. That's not real cool. I can see why he'd be upset about that. But still being upset about it seems to be a little bit of an overreaction. I mean, it doesn't really matter who signed it, they work for the same boss. Finishing early is just good business." He sipped his coffee, adding, "In fact, I got a commendation for finishing ahead of schedule. And a medal."

"...And that's how they do it in America." Theresa stated, seeking confirmation.

"Usually, yeah. I mean, depends on who you work for, there are some exceptions, but on the whole, yeah it is."

Theresa rubbed her temples, trying not to screw up her eyes in frustration so she wouldn't get wrinkles. Working internationally had taught her to be patient with different cultures (even when they were stupid), but it wasn't always easy. Especially when what she _really_ wanted to do was hit someone over the head with something.

You know what? Screw it.

Theresa snatched up the throw pillow in both hands and stood, repeatedly smacking Alfred over the head with it. He flailed in surprise and tried unsuccessfully to catch it. "Wha— There— I— Hey—!" He tried to get out, repeatedly interrupted by pillow to the face.

Finally Theresa tossed it aside and smoothed her hair back with both hands, flushed and panting from all the exertion. _"There."_

"Er...Feel better?" Alfred asked cautiously, eyes wide and hands still raised in self-defense in case another unexpected assault was in the offing.

"Much." She answered primly, sitting down and arranging her skirts around her legs. "Alfred," she started in a businesslike fashion, "you did something horrible. I see that you don't understand that, but I'm going to try and explain it so you do."

"Okay." Alfred shifted in his seat, pulling his legs up onto the couch and folding them, straightening up and looking attentive. "What did I do?"

"Alfred," Theresa stalled, frowning, and tilted her head as she tried to think of a simple way to explain it so he would understand, because Alfred's background was obviously against him in this, "you remember how angry Marco got when you let that intern help with your makeup when he had to step out to yell at Paulo for ordering the wrong type of foundation?"

Alfred grimaced slightly, wincing. "Oh, yeah. She just offered to wipe some of the base off since my hands were full— I didn't realise it would be such a big deal. It was just a couple of dabs with a sponge. But then when he came back and saw her with the sponge he flipped his shit. I mean," he allowed, "he's a tempermental guy, he's always throwing a fit about something, but that time he was actually _angry._" One side of his mouth pulled back a little ruefully. "I didn't mean to make him mad."

"Do you remember _why_ he was so mad?" Theresa prompted.

"Well," Alfred thought back, tilting his head. "_You _said it was because he's supposed to be _my_ personal makeup artist, and artists are sensitive and possessive and I made him feel like I didn't need him when I let someone else do his job; and when I caught up to him _he_ said it was because he's an _artist_ and I insulted him by letting some rank amateur paw at his canvas and ruin his work, and I had better decide whether I wanted _him_ or a bunch of incompetent floozies. He said he'd leave if I wasn't going to commit, 'cause he wasn't going to waste his talent on someone who didn't appreciate the fact that he's a _genius_." He grinned, a little sheepishly. "I had to buy him flowers and wine and offer to let him help me with Valentíne's costumes and accessories before he forgave me." He settled back on the couch, sipping his coffee, and grinned. "Best decision I ever made, by the way. I never would have considered half the stuff he picks out for Valentíne to wear. It's darker than I would have thought to go. Kind of predatory. It really adds a new dimension to the character." His teeth bared in a hungry patherine smile, eyes hooding and growing intent. "He gave him fangs."

"Mhmm." Theresa agreed, almost purring, her penchant for bad-boys showing as her own lips curled up at the corners. Mmm, Valentíne. She loved watching him work. She wasn't sure whether he or 'Alfred' was her favourite. 'Alfred' was more tragic, hiding so much pain and a terrible past behind his charming facade, and was technically more redeemable; but Valentíne was passionately dangerous and darkly sexy...

"But, what does Marco getting upset have to do with getting Feliciano to sign the contract instead of Lovino?" Alfred wondered, brows furrowing in confusion.

"Hm? Oh." Theresa snapped out of her fantasies and returned to the task at hand— explaining to Alfred how he'd been an asshole. "Well, Marco and Mister Vargas are both Italian." She started, watching to see if he was listening. He was, so she continued. "And Italians are very passionate people, Alfred."

"Heh," He snorted, nodding his understanding. _That_ was an understatement.

"And when they do business with someone, it's a very _personal_ affair." Theresa said seriously, making sure Alfred understood how grave this was. "Americans might go from partner to partner without really taking it seriously," (Alfred frowned) "but when you're doing business with an Italian, it's not just _business,_ it's a _relationship_."

"It's not that we don't take it seriously," Alfred interjected, still frowning, "and it's not like we don't form business relationships; it's just, you're doing business with the group. It's not _personal_, it's business. It's not—" he paused, frown twisting as he tried to think of how to explain it clearly.

"But to Italians it _is_ personal. You build a relationship with the _person_ you're doing business with, and stick with that person. You don't go around," she pursed her lips, waving her hand expressively, "jumping from one person to the next. You stay with the person you have a relationship with, and invest in that relationship. You don't go behind their back with other people." She wrinkled her nose distastefully.

"It's not _like_ that." Alfred shifted uncomfortably, and set his cup down, ruffling his hair. "I mean, it's not like we're _cheating_ or something like that." He protested. "Looking for a better deal or trying to finish faster is just good business sense. No-one holds that against you. I mean, they might not be happy to lose the business, but they understand. They'd do the same thing in your shoes. Keeps things competitive."

"In _America_." Theresa snapped, slapping the couch cushion she sat on in frustration. "You're not _listening_, Alfred. I'm not talking about Americans, I'm talking about Italians. They do things _differently."_

"Feh." Alfred huffed, sinking down on the couch and crossing his arms in a sulk. "It's just, you make it sound like a _relationship_ relationship." He muttered, pouting. "Like _lovers_ or something, and I slept around." He set his jaw stubbornly, eyes sliding to the side, upset that anyone would imply that he would _ever_ do something like that. _Ever_. Even _metaphorically._

"That's kind of very much like what happened, honey." Theresa said gently, watching him carefully. He was getting upset over the idea, like she'd known he would, which was good, because it meant he was taking it seriously. Part of the reason why she'd led him in the direction of thinking of it like a 'romantic' partnership in the first place was because she knew it was a concept that would resonate with him, catch his attention and hold it, and because it wasn't at all a bad analogy, really, for an Italian business partnership, one that would stick with him and he would remember. (The other part was because she was secretly hoping he would begin to correlate Lovino Vargas with the idea of a romantic partnership and romance, however subconsciously).

But she had to be careful. If she didn't handle this part right, if she was too aggressive and accusatory, he'd feel like he was under attack, and become resentful and defensive and close off to anything she tried to say. Especially if he felt she was accusing him of something he felt so strongly about _not_ doing.

She smiled a little tiny bit, eyes softening. It was cute how innocent he was.

"Ah, Alfred," she sighed, relenting, and stood, walking around the coffee table to sit down next to him, facing him slightly. She smiled gently, and reached for one of his hands. Still sulking, he let her, uncrossing his arms so she could take his hand in both of hers (causing him to assuming a more open posture like she'd intended, which would help him relax). She squeezed his hand and reached up to gently brush his bangs back. "I know you didn't mean to hurt anyone, honey." She assured him softly, touching his cheek. "This was a terrible misunderstanding, I think. You're a sweet boy, I know you are. And you always mean well. You would never hurt anyone on purpose."

"Of course not." He pouted, staring down at their hands. "I'm not a cheater." He added defensively, brows furrowing in a frown.

"I know, honey." She squeezed his hand.

"I would _never_ cheat on someone I was with."

"I know. I know." She soothed, rubbing his upper arm. "You're very faithful. You're a good boy. I'm sorry I yelled at you." She added, reminding him that she had, and settled against his side, leaning her head on his shoulder and still holding onto his hand. They sat that way for a while, while she waited. Not long now...

She saw Alfred's expression change from sulking to remembering, probably thinking about her words earlier, and confusion and vague guilt. She knew he understood from what she'd said earlier that he'd hurt someone, and that he'd know from how upset she'd been that it had been bad, but he didn't know _what_ or _how_. But Alfred liked to fix things, and hated the thought of hurting anyone, and so he wouldn't be able to let it lie like that. He'd want to know, so he could fix it.

(And if he took too long to ask, she could always prompt him again.)

He looked down at her hand in his, and frowned uncomfortably, one side of his mouth pulling back, and she knew she had him. "What did I _do?"_ he asked a little plaintively.

"Well, honey," Theresa paused, acting like she was thinking about how to phrase it. Alfred looked up, and she nibble her lip, looking pensive. "Maybe it's best if you think of it like a romantic relationship." He pursed his lips, brows furrowing doubtfully, but didn't protest, so she continued. "It _isn't_, I know, but it's _like_ one in a way. You see, Italians usually only do business with you if they _like_ you. They want to get to know you, and figure out who you are as a _person_, before they commit to doing business with you. They like to get to know you, first— 'hang out' with you, as you'd say, and see if they like _you_, and if you like them. If they don't like you, they won't do business with you unless they absolutely have to. But if they _do_, and you enter into a business relationship, well, then...they see it as exclusive. They'll stay loyal to you —they won't do business with anyone else, even if the 'deal' is good— and they expect the same from you."

"Really?" Alfred frowned dubiously. "That's not a very efficient business model..."

"It works for them." Theresa shrugged. "They don't really look at it the way you do, it's more important to them that it's a..._personal_ relationship. And they'll put a lot of effort into maintaining the relationship between you, that connection. I bet Lovino Vargas 'hung out' with you fairly often outside of work, didn't he? Invited you out to eat and things? And he probably called you, too, to talk about things outside of business. Am I right?" She prompted, and waited while he thought about it.

"Well, yeah, I guess we did hang out alot," Alfred conceded after a moment. "I mean, not so much at first, it took him a while to warm up to me, but after a while, yeah, we'd do that stuff. But, I thought it was because we'd become friends. And then after the deal was done he stopped talking to me and wouldn't take my calls and stuff, so...I just figured he'd just been pretending like he was my friend to get a better business deal, and since it was finished he didn't need to pretend anymore."

"Didn't that _upset_ you?" Theresa wondered a little incredulously.

"It happens." Alfred shrugged, nonchalantly. "I mean, it's not nice, and I was kind of disappointed, yeah, but he did what he thought he had to to get shit done, and I can understand that. We both got a great deal, and that's the main thing in business. No point letting it get to you or holding a grudge." His brows furrowed again, and he tilted his head in an effort to comprehend. "But, so... you're saying the reason he stopped talking to me was because I had his brother sign the contract." He said slowly. "Not because our business was done?"

"That's right!" Theresa affirmed, spreading her hands as she reiterated, "He thought you and he had a personal relationship, and any business that you had was between you and him. And when you had his brother sign the contract, it was like saying you didn't care about your relationship, and didn't respect him or want to do business with him. It was kind of like you cheated on him, see? And _then_, to make things worse, no-one told him about it until afterwards, but everyone knew— so it was like not only did you cheat on him with his brother, but everyone knew about it and was laughing at him behind his back. And to top it all off, _because_ you made it clear to _everyone_ that you didn't respect or care about Lovino Vargas or want to do business with him, _that_ damaged his reputation at work and among his peers, so he was basically publically humiliated." She sat back and summed up, counting off on her fingers. "So, because of what happened, his brother got the credit for the work he did, _and_ he lost face at work and among his friends and family, _and_ he was hurt by what he perceived as your betrayal, since he was prepared to be loyal to you in your relationship, but you went behind his back— as he saw it— and pursued a relationship with his brother, instead. You see?"

"That's _terrible!"_ Alfred said, stricken and upset. "Why didn't he _say_ anything?"

"Well, you kind of broke his heart, honey." Theresa said, as sympathetically as she could. "I think it's understandable that he wouldn't want to talk to you, don't you?"

"I can fix this," Alfred wriggled in his seat to pull his cell out of his pocket, and scrolled through his address book. "I'll call him, and— no wait, he's not taking my calls. He's staying in the hotel, right?" He made to stand, intending to head for the door. "I'll just go to the main desk and look up his room, and go and—"

"Alfred, no." Theresa said, and he paused halfway through rising, looking at her in surprise

"But I have to—"

_"No._"

"But—"

"Alfred, _sit down."_ She said sharply. Confused, he slowly sat back down. Theresa crossed her arms. "What exactly do you expect you're going to do, marching into his hotel room?"

"I'm going to apologize." He said automatically, earnestly.

"He doesn't want to see you, honey." Theresa said firmly. "He's very hurt, and upset, and nothing you could say could make that better. If you go running into things without knowing what you're doing, you're just going to make things worse."

"But I have to fix it," Alfred protested. "I can tell him I didn't know, and that I'll make it up to him."

Theresa shook her head. "No, that won't work. A simple apology isn't going to fix this, Alfred."

"But..." For a moment he looked like he wanted to argue, but then he sighed. "Well, what am I supposed to _do_, then? How can I fix it? I don't want him to feel bad because of me. I have to fix this."

"Not by running off impulsively and ruining everything. It'll take time, and finesse, and _experience_." Theresa said firmly, and patted his arm comfortingly. "Don't worry, I'm on your side. I'll help you fix things. Just you leave it to me. I'll arrange things, and let you know what to do and when, okay? Just promise me you won't try anything on your own." She raised a finger at him sternly when he pouted. "_Promise_, Alfred. If you try and rush things you could make things even worse. That's how you got into this mess in the first place, no? So just wait and let me handle things. I know what I'm doing."

Alfred sighed. "Alright. I promise, but ...I don't like knowing that he thinks...that he's like that because of me. Can't we just... can't I just, apologize? At least to start."

Theresa sighed too, rubbing her temples. "Italians are very proud, Alfred. If you go in there and just apologize, you're just going to add insult to injury. You're going to have to do a lot better than that. And it'll take time. _Trust me_. Have I ever steered you wrong before?"

"...Well, alright." Alfred agreed reluctantly. "I'll wait, and do what you say. How long will it take, though?"

"Well, if it was anyone else I'd say there was a good chance you'd never be able to fix things." Theresa said, and Alfred's face fell. "But with me looking out for you, we should be able to do it. _If_ you don't do anything stupid."

"I won't." Alfred said determinedly. "I'll do it right this time."

"Good." Theresa nodded, satisfied. "Then we're done for now. Didn't you want to take a nap before we go out tonight?"

"What? Oh, yeah." Alfred nodded too, running a hand through his hair. "I do. But, I forgot to tell you— we're going to be meeting up with everyone later, for drinks and dancing and stuff."

"The people you work with?"

"Yeah. They heard we were going out and wanted in. Is that alright?"

"It's kind of short notice, but it's fine." Theresa said, mentally running through her outfits and making plans. "Where are we going?"

"I don't know yet." Alfred admitted. "Francis is making the plans, and he'll call us and let us know when and where. Probably not 'til after eight or nine though, so we have some time."

"It's a good thing we went shopping yesterday." Theresa mused, and stood, prodding Alfred. "You go and take your nap. I'll get started picking out our outfits and wake you when it's time to start getting ready."

"Thanks, Theresa." He stretched, yawning, and stood, pecking her cheek. "'Night, then."

"Mm, enjoy your nap." She said absently as she waved him off, her mind busy with plans. "Don't forget to drink some water before you sleep, you have to keep your skin clear and hydrated."

"Yeah, 'kay." He yawned again, rubbing his eyes, and stumbled off to bed.

* * *

><p>"I love you..." he sighed, pressing closer to Amando. Fine sand shone silver in the light of the full moon, soft and smooth against his skin, but he barely heeded the sensation, his attention focused on the delicious heat between his legs, and the the thrumming ache in the pit of his abdomen, and the man above him, in whose arms he lay. "Mm," he murmured, breath catching as he splayed his limbs in the sand, and opened his eyes to see Amando gazing at him with love and devotion. He smiled, reaching up to touch the face he loved so.<p>

Amando smiled blissfully, turning his head to press a kiss to his palm, never removing his eyes from Romano's. "When we're married, we can be together like this for the rest of our lives." He promised, leaning down to kiss Romano's nose, trailing kisses down his face and jaw and neck, whispering in his ear as his hand trailed Romano's torso. "I can make love to you, and love you, for eternity."

"Ah, _A-amando!" _Romano gasped, digging his heels into the sand underneath him, arching up into the touch as Amando found him, fondled and stroked his secret places, driving him wild with pleasure and love and desire. Amando responded, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear that he barely understood in his haze of pleasure, his low, sweet voice and delicious accent stoking the flames within him until he couldn't bear it anymore; he needed to feel Amando's skin against his, Amando inside him, filling and fulfilling him in a way that only Amando could.

"Amando," he parted his legs, offering himself to his lover, "I _need_ you."

"I need you, too." Amando murmured against his skin, lowering himself onto Romano, the firm, muscled weight of his body pressing Romano's into the soft sand as he shifted his hips against his in a teasing rhythm. Romano moaned, responding in kind, feeling the deeply arousing play of muscle under the heated skin of the body pressed against his, Amando's voice low in his ear. "Can you feel how much I need you, my love?"

_"Yes," _he breathed, sliding his arms around Amando's neck, opening his legs wider in eager invitation. Amando pushed himself up on his knees, grasping Romano's hips and lifting them off the sand, sliding deep inside him.

_"Yes,_" Romano spread his arms to dig his fingers into the sand, mouth open in pleasure as Amando began to move inside him, the delicious friction everything he desired, his entire body thrumming _yes,_"_yes, yes, yes."_

_"I love you,"_ Amando moaned, leaning over him and lifting Romano's hips further, dominating and powerful but _safe_ and Romano gasped, writhing, his mind and body humming with ecstasy as Amando's easy thrusts drove him into pleasure-filled oblivion.

_"Amando, Amando, Amando," _he chanted fervently, running his hands over Amando's muscled chest, his stomach and loins tightening and coiling as he rode the edge of climax, each deep, claiming thrust bringing him closer, closer, _so fucking close—ah! _"Amando!" He cried out, closing his eyes and flinging his arms around Amando's neck as waves of pleasure overtook him.

Amando took him in his arms, holding him close, murmuring endearments in his ear as he moved inside him still, and Romano clung to him, surrendering to the overwhelming pleasure of his release, the movement of Amando inside him intensifying and prolonging the shockwaves of rippling pleasure radiating through his body, leaving him liquid and warm and spent.

He lay his head on Amando's shoulder, eyes closing in utter contentment, sighing as he slipped into unconsciousness under slow waves of pleasure, "I love you, Amando..."

Everything faded into darkness.

A knocking sound woke him up, and he opened his eyes to an unfamiliar white ceiling.

"Romano, it's time to get up." Belgium's voice sang gently, as she rapped lightly at his door. "Come on honey, wake up. It's getting late."

"What?" He said groggily, rubbing his eyes and sighing. Where was he? Oh, right, hotel. France, argh. Comfortable bed. So relaxed...

"Are you awake yet? Romano~." Belgium knocked again. He yawned, feeling regretful he'd been awakened. He'd been having the most wonderful dream...

Suddenly he became sharply aware of the embarrassing stickiness of his bedclothes, the sheets plastered to his skin in the wake of his dream activities. "D-don't come in!" He yelled in panic, bolting upright and throwing the covers aside, gathering the tell-tale sheets into his arms. "I, I'm awake! Don't come in here!"

"Okay~. I ordered an early dinner for us, so meet me at the table when you're dressed." She called through the door.

"Okay! I will!" Romano shouted back, casting frantically around the room for a place to hide the incriminating sheets.

"Hurry, I have something to tell you! Something good~._"_

"Ok, ok! I'll hurry!" He assured her desperately, relieved when the sound of retreating foosteps indicated she'd left. Unable to find a proper hiding place, he ended up stuffing the sheets under the bed, and arranging the blankets to hide the fact that they were missing. He'd deal with them later. No time now. But what about himself? _Shit._ He was sticky and gross, but he didn't have time to shower. Shit, what— Aha! He pounced on his toiletries bag, pulling out a bottle of cologne, ripping off the top and pouring the liquid liberally on a washcloth, which he used to wipe himself down. There! Good as a shower, right? Now no-one could tell!

He grabbed the clothes he'd worn earlier from where they lay neatly folded on a chair, pulling the shirt and slacks on as quickly as he could, leaving the rest and running his hand through his hair a few times to smooth it. There. That should be good, right? He checked his reflection in the vanity, nodding. He looked okay. Belgium wouldn't be able to tell he'd been having...dreams.

"There you are. I was just about to go and see if you'd fallen asleep again." Belgium greeted him with a smile as he approached the table, and indicated the place she'd set for him. "Sit down and eat. Did you sleep well?"

"Mm." He grunted, flushing, and sat, focusing on his plate.

"Oh, here, have some lemonade, too." Belgium said, noticing he was beverage-free, and rose to pour him a glass. Leaning a little closer to pass it to him, she wrinkled her nose, spreading her fingers delicately in front of it. "Um, Romano, honey...you know I love that cologne, it suits you very well, but I think you may have put on a _little_ too much." She smiled, tactfully trying not to cough, blinking rapidly as her eyes began to water. "It's a little...strong."

Romano's flush deepened, and he hunched over his plate. "I, uh, spilled the bottle."

"Oh, that's too bad." Belgium said sympathetically. "I hope you still have some left? Do we need to go shopping?"

"Y-yeah, there's some left."

"That's good." Belgium returned her attention to her plate, adding consideringly, "Though, we may have to go shopping anyway. You only packed clothes for business, didn't you? And I'd like to get something special for tonight. " She paused to take a sip of her own lemonade, and nodded. "Yes. I think we'll go shopping. Maybe I should call France and ask him to recommend a good boutique to get outfits for this evening."

"Why do we need outfits for this evening?" Romano asked warily, lifting his head. "What's going on? If this is something France is planning..."

"No, no, nothing like that." Belgium hastened to dismiss his fears, not entirely successfully. "You'll like this Romano, it's something wonderful! Just listen;" she leaned eagerly forward, eyes sparkling with excitement, "_Theresa Álvarez_, the actress who plays Catalina? She's here in the hotel! Can you believe it?" She clapped her hands, bouncing excitedly in her seat. "America brought her along with him for the meeting. Isn't that exciting?"

"W-what?" Romano said, stomach sinking. "He, he did?"

"Yes! And that's not the best part," she added, oblivious to Romano's stricken expression. "_We're going to meet her!_ All of us together. We're going to meet Miss Álvarezand America later for drinks and dancing. He said she wanted to meet us! Isn't that _amazing?_ _Eeeee!" _She gave a high-pitched squeal of excitement, unable to contain herself. "We're going to meet Catalina! Eeee!"

"W-what?" Romano paled, dropping his fork. _No I don't want to go I'm not going,_ he wanted to say, but Belgium was looking at him with sparkly-eyed excitement and overflowing with happiness and well, he could never say no to Belgium. _Shiiiit_. Shiiiiiit. "Th-that's..." he swallowed the lump in his throat, looking down at the plate. "That's...great."

Seeing this, Belgium calmed somewhat, touching his arm sympathetically. Poor baby was so shy sometimes. "Oh Romano, don't be shy! I know you must be nervous, but it'll be okay! You're so very sweet and handsome, I'm _sure_ she'll be charmed by you. And we'll pick you out the _best_ outfit, and I'll be there to help you. You just be yourself, and everything will be alright!" She smiled encouragingly, and winked. "Who knows? She just might fall in love with you." Romano mumbled something unintelligible, reaching for his glass, and she patted his shoulder, returning her attention to her own plate. He was just feeling a little nervous, that was only natural. But she knew he had nothing to worry about. She had _full_ confidence in his ability to charm _any_ woman he wanted to. He'd be fine once they got him there and he got over being starstruck, and realised that Catalina was actually a living, breathing, beautiful young woman named Theresa _Á_lvarez, and he'd turn on the charm and they'd fall _madly_ in love! Or, well, maybe not all at once, she admitted to herself as her practical side cut in; but it'd be a start. She smiled, mind filling with plans and visions of future happiness for her little Romano and his new love. "As soon as you're finished eating, we'll go shopping. We have a few hours to get ready, so that should be plenty of time." She reminded him, and paused, subtly clearing her throat in an attempt not to breathe in too deeply through her nose. "But...perhaps you should take a shower, first. _Then_ we'll go shopping."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Theresa may be...exaggerating somewhat in order to lead Alfred in the direction she wants, as well as get through his thick skull. She's not far off, though. Although I should point out business in North Italy is done a bit more brusquely, most likely due in large part to German blood and influence. <em>

_I did not forget China, he just didn't show up. _

_Um. Oh! England as Titania, Queen of the Fairies, makes me very happy. I'm pretty sure you already know, but all the characters in plays during Shakespeare's time were played by men, as having women onstage was considered...immoral. And was therefore illegal. (But dressing men up as women and having them enact mock-relations with other men was less immoral and not illegal, because...they had their reasons, I'm sure. Ah, the 'good old days'. *note sarcasm*) _


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